


prompt fills

by softeldritch (orphan_account)



Series: prompt fills [3]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Winnipeg Jets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-07-29 05:17:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 27,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20076757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/softeldritch
Summary: prompt fills from tumblr! (see chapter titles for more details)





	1. nikolaj/patrik, protectiveness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: "defending one another but only while the other isn't around"
> 
> prompted by kendall on [tumblr](https://soft-eldritch.tumblr.com/post/183855375663/defending-one-another-but-only-while-the-other), warning for mentioned homophobia

Nikolaj doesn’t really know how it happens. He doesn’t know if anybody does. One minute he’s sitting on his couch at home, cradling a bucket to his chest in case he throws up again, watching Kevin take a faceoff in their end. His heart’s racing because they’re up one goal and there’s 90 seconds left in the third period and the other team has already pulled their goalie and there’s nothing he can do about it—and then Patty’s in a fight.

He barely even sees how it _starts_. The puck’s about to drop and then even on TV their arena erupts with noise as Patrik drops the gloves and just starts demolishing a guy. Nikolaj almost jumps up, leaning closer to try and see what’s going on through the chaos. Because Patrik punched a rookie, the rookie went down, and Patrik’s _still on him_.

Patty isn’t even a fighter. Yeah, he’s big and strong and can hit really hard, but he’s not an emotional guy. He’ll join a scrum but he’s not a brawler.

It takes the refs a few seconds to settle things down, and another few to pull Patty off the guy. Now Nikolaj recognizes him, one of the new AHL callups who acts cocky for a guy who wasn’t even drafted. He remembers playing against the guy, remembers him running his mouth and getting physical, but never anything that’d provoke Patrik into fighting with him.

Patrik skates straight off the ice and heads down the tunnel, breezing right past Blake trying to talk to him, past everyone staring at him. From the set of his shoulders Nikolaj can tell he’s still mad. Everyone can–Beyak and Sawyer are both wondering what just happened, what could’ve pissed someone like Patrik off so much.

Nikolaj grabs his phone and sends off a ‘_what happened???_’ text, then turns his attention back to the game.

It’s terrifyingly close, but they win. Patrik doesn’t show up in the post-game celly line, he doesn’t show up in any post-game interviews. Nikolaj’s watching for him, waiting for a mention of him, wishing he was there so he could ask Patrik what the hell happened for him to react like that.

Then Nikolaj doesn’t really have the time to worry about it again, because he’s throwing up. Stupid fucking flu.

A couple hours later, when Nikolaj’s curled up on the bathroom floor with his cheek pressed against the cool tiles, praying for death, his phone goes off. Patrik’s finally texted him back, ‘_you were watching?_’

So, Nikolaj doesn’t really have the dexterity to text right now. He can barely read the text because his vision keeps blurring up, and his hands are all sweaty and gross. Instead of responding he presses the call button and puts it on speaker, laying the phone in front of him and trying to remember how to breathe properly.

Patrik picks up on the third ring. “You okay?”

“I’m dying,” Nikolaj says, pretty conversationally. “What happened?”

There’s a bit of silence on the other end. “Are you drinking water? Blake said—”

“Yeah, I’ve been drinking water,” he says, because Blake texted him the exact same thing, along with the suggestion not to watch the game because the excitement really wouldn’t help his body trying to recover. But, like, Nikolaj’s not gonna _not _watch the game. “Just threw it all up, though.” He traces the edge of one of the tiles in his bathroom with his fingertip. “Why’d you punch the rookie? Uh, Anderson or whatever?”

“Anders,” Patrik corrects. Nikolaj’s head is stuffed up and his ears are plugged, but even with that Patrik’s voice sounds weird. “It’s nothing. He said something–he said something and I got mad. You don’t need to worry about it.”

“Uh, no?”

“Uh, yeah.” Patrik’s decided on it, Nikolaj can tell from his tone. And when Patrik’s decided to do something, he does it. “You need to rest. Go sleep and stop thinking.”

Nikolaj pouts, then remembers Patrik can’t see that. “Patty—”

“Bye.”

He hangs up, and Nikolaj’s left alone on his bathroom floor. “Asshole,” he says to nobody.

* * *

The fever breaks three days later, and Nikolaj both threatens and pleads with Patrik to come over and bring him more gatorade and chicken noodle soup mix. He’s exhausted and starving and ready to just snack on unsalted popcorn while Patrik kicks his ass at Chel, just for some semblance of normalcy. Plus, it’s a good excuse for him to finally climb into the shower and put on a pair of sweats and a shirt that aren’t like five years old and covered in holes and stains.

When Patrik shows up he takes one look at Nikolaj and says, “you look like shit.”

“I’m sick, what’s your excuse?” Nikolaj snarks back, and then he opens the door wide enough for Patrik to come through. He gets himself set up on the couch while Patrik takes his coat off, setting up a game.

“Here,” Patty says when he sits down, dropping a bottle of gatorade next to Nikolaj’s thigh.

“I love you,” Nikolaj says, almost sincerely, as he cracks open the bottle and swallows down about a quarter of it. When he turns back to Patrik he’s just staring at him, a weird look on his face. Nikolaj doesn’t really get it, so he waves his controller and says, “ready to get your ass kicked?”

Patrik does not, in fact, get his ass kicked.

A few rounds in, after Patrik’s won yet another game, Nikolaj doesn’t start setting up the next one right away. He turns to Patrik, bringing a leg up to curl under him on the couch. “So,” he says, as Patrik’s looking at him like he’s grown another head, “what happened?”

Patrik cocks his head. “I just beat you. Did you forget already?”

“Not that, stupid.” Patrik’s still just staring at him, so Nikolaj rolls his eyes and gestures vaguely in Patrik’s direction. “Your fight with that Anders guy. What was that about?”

Just like that, Patrik’s body language changes. His shoulders get tense and there’s a scowl on his face. “I told you, it’s nothing,” he says.

“It’s not nothing,” Nikolaj says. After quite a few years playing with each other he knows Patty pretty well, and he knows it’s not easy to rile him up like that. He shuffles a bit closer, because Patrik’s not even looking at him anymore. “You don’t start fights like that. So … something obviously happened.”

Patrik shifts. It’s not easy to make Patrik look uncomfortable in his own skin–he’s somehow only grown more confident since his rookie years–but right now he kinda looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here. “I don’t want to talk about it with you,” he says, biting out the words.

Now Nikolaj’s worried about it. “What’d he say?” He moves even closer, like he can see the answer just by looking in Patrik’s eyes. “Was he saying shit about you?”

“_No_,” Patrik snaps, “he was talking about _you_.”

A rush of something almost like nausea rises in Nikolaj’s chest. He kinda doesn’t want to know anymore. “What’d he say?” It must’ve been something bad. To get Patrik so pissed off.

Patrik still isn’t looking at him. “He was saying things,” he says, in a low tone, glaring at the controller in his hands. “About you being gay.”

Nikolaj’s stomach drops out. “Oh.”

He’d never really meant to come out. Not the way he did. But he got drunk and stupid, and a picture started circulating of him making out with some random guy at one of the Jets’ Cup celebrations before their media team could stifle the situation. It was crazy for a while, and a few other NHLers came out too, and then it mostly died down. Sometimes Nikolaj forgets he’s even out in the first place.

But he is.

His hands are kind of shaking. He can’t really look at Patrik anymore either. “What’d he say?”

“I don’t wanna repeat them.”

“Oh,” he says again.

“Nobody is allowed to say shit like that about you.” Despite his low, even tone Patrik sounds furious, and Nikolaj looks up at him in surprise. They’re staring at each other, and Patrik looks so mad Nikolaj’s almost scared of him. “I had to show him.”

“Oh,” Nikolaj says, for the third time. He needs to say something other than fucking ‘oh’. He leans forward a little awkwardly, patting Patrik on the shoulder. “Uh. Thanks.”

When he pulls back his hand, Patrik grabs it. “Don’t say that.” He holds Nikolaj’s hand gentle, but firm. It’s not the first time Nikolaj has noticed how big his hands are, but it’s the first time he’s ever noticed it like _this_. “I don’t–I shouldn’t have to do that.” His thumb rubs little circles over the back of Nikolaj’s hand and he laces their fingers together and suddenly Nikolaj just wants to curl up against him and stay there forever.

“If I wasn’t sick, could I kiss you?” he blurts out. Then his face goes bright red, and his heart rockets up into his throat. Shit, that’s not the right thing to say here at _all_. “Or, uh—”

But Patrik tightens his grip, and looks Nikolaj in the eye. “Yes.”

Nikolaj thinks his heart might stop for a second. “Wait.” He looks at Patrik’s face, searching for–something, he’s not sure what. He doesn’t find anything but sincerity and a hint of Patrik’s smile. “Really?”

Patrik rolls his eyes, and slips his hand out of Nikolaj’s only to stretch his arm across the back of the couch. “Yes, really. Stupid. C’mere.”

It feels like it should be a bigger revelation, but it’s not. Somehow it just feels like this is right, like this is something they already knew. Maybe they did, and Nikolaj’s just the last to know as usual.

So he shuffles over on the couch and sinks into Patrik’s side, savouring the warmth and the feeling of Patty wrapping an arm around him. It’s comfortable, and Patrik smells good. Nikolaj’s controller sits abandoned on the couch as Patrik opens up Netflix and starts scrolling through movies one-handed. He’s running the fingers of his other hand through Nikolaj’s hair, nails dragging over his scalp.

His brief spike of anxiety and fear from earlier is almost gone. At this point he’s about ready to fall asleep, curled up against Patty’s side. If Nikolaj was a sappy person, he’d describe it as feeling _safe_. But he’s not sappy, so he just lets his eyes drift shut and puts his hand on Patrik’s knee.

“Hey,” Nikolaj says, nuzzling his head against Patrik’s shoulder. “Can I kiss you anyway?”

“Gross.”

But he drops the controller and turns his head, tipping Nikolaj’s chin up to press a soft kiss to his mouth anyway, so Nikolaj’s pretty sure he’s not all that bothered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tumblr](http://soft-eldritch.tumblr.com/) // [twitter](http://twitter.com/softeldritch)


	2. brandon/adam, clothes sharing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: "wearing each other’s clothes"
> 
> prompted by paige on [tumblr](https://soft-eldritch.tumblr.com/post/183860774088/jfakdlfddjk-youre-doing-fic-prompts-how-bout), vaguely nsfw

“Oh, shit,” Brandon says, while Adam is still catching his breath. “We have to leave for dinner in like, twenty minutes.”

“You’re kidding.” Adam wiggles his fingers a bit. He can’t do much more, since his wrists are still tied to the headboard with one of Brandon’s ties. It was really hot a couple minutes ago, but now it’s kinda getting annoying. He narrows his eyes at Brandon, who’s still kneeling between his legs and scowling at Adam’s bedside clock. “Hey, you mind?”

Brandon glances back at him, then laughs. “Oh, right.” He leans over to undo the knot, freeing up Adam’s arms.

“Took you long enough,” Adam gripes, sitting up and rubbing his wrists. “Do we seriously have to leave in twenty minutes?”

“Yeah. Remember, the group date thing?”

Yeah, Adam remembers. It’s not really officially a group date, because him and Brandon are the only ones of the group _actually _dating, but the rest of them are dating in all but name anyway. The rest of them are just _stupid_, because they could all be getting _laid_.

“Well, I need a shower,” Adam says, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and standing up. “You coming?”

Brandon spends a good few seconds staring at his ass before responding. “Yep.”

Showering together quickly turns into making out against the shower wall, which quickly turns into Adam getting on his knees and sucking Brandon’s dick. He’s got a hot boyfriend with a short refractory period, sue him.

That _does _mean that by the time they get out of the shower, they should’ve left five minutes ago.

They rush through getting dressed and Adam barely pays attention to what Brandon is doing until he feels hands on his hips while he’s busy tying his tie. “Wait,” Brandon says, pulling Adam around by his hips. There’s a wicked grin on his face and a glint in his dark eyes, and Adam’s about to ask if they’re gonna get sidetracked _again _when Brandon tugs away the tie hanging around his neck and drops it unceremoniously on the ground.

“Dude, that’s my tie.”

Brandon smiles, and if Adam didn’t know him so well he could almost mistake it for sweet. But he _does _know Brandon, so he knows he’s feeling mischievous. “I’ve got a better one,” he says, draping it over Adam’s neck and starting to tie it, and it takes Adam a few seconds to realize which one it is.

“Dude,” he says again, his voice a little bit shakier. “This is yours.”

More specifically, it’s the tie Brandon just used to tie him up while he fucked him out of his mind.

Brandon finishes tying it with a grin, wrapping the tie around his wrist and using it to tug Adam down and kiss him. “Good eye,” he says, teasing, letting Adam go and turning around to find his own clothes. “It looks great on you, babe.”

“Don’t be so proud of yourself,” Adam grumbles, crossing his arms and leaning up against the nearest wall. Then he notices that the shirt Brandon’s pulling over his head is too big on him, and kinda familiar. “Is that mine?” It’s just a t-shirt, heather grey with a slight v-neck, but seeing the way it hangs too loose on Brandon’s shoulders brings a flush to Adam’s cheeks.

Then Brandon flashes him that brilliant smile, and Adam’s fucking _gone_. “It’s only fair, right?” he says, tucking the shirt into his dark wash jeans. He pulls a blazer on over it, and it almost disguises the fact that the shirt’s obviously too big for him. Almost. Adam _knows_. “You’re wearing my tie, I’m wearing your shirt. Now we match.”

“You’re evil.” Brandon knows how Adam feels seeing him in his clothes. Brandon also knows how flustered Adam’ll be, wearing this tie. “How are you so fucking cute but so evil?”

Brandon pats his cheek. “You’ll be fine, big baby.”

They end up at the restaurant ten minutes late, and _somehow _they’re still there before Nik.

“Literally how is he this late,” Adam says, looking around at the group of them. Ben is chatting with Mark and Blake, and Patty and Sami are giggling about something in Finnish together. “Like, he has a watch, right? He knows how to read a clock, right?”

Patrik waves his phone in the air. “He’s on his way.”

Adam stares out the window at the parking lot as they all get led to their table. “I worry about him sometimes.”

Brandon snickers. “What do you think he’s even doing that makes him so late?” He’s walking close to Adam’s side, brushing their knuckles together but never quite taking his hand. Sometimes Adam still feels like a schoolgirl around her crush, despite the five months they’ve been dating. “It’s not like he’s a girl putting on makeup.”

Sami says something in Finnish to Patty again, laughing as Patrik groans and shoves him away.

They’ve all already ordered drinks by the time Nik finally shows up, trailing behind a waitress and already looking thoroughly chastised. He slides into the circular booth next to Patty and they share some whispered conversation that makes Nik scowl and Patty laugh.

Adam catches Brandon’s eye, and they both snicker. Feels good, being the only idiots who’ve actually figured out their feelings for each other. And Andrew told Adam he was _sure _they’d be the last. Stupid Andrew.

“What were you even doing?” Brandon asks, grinning when Nik scowls at him. “How are you _this _late?”

“I had stuff to do,” is all Nik says, and Patty giggles even more.

“You don’t really have much room to judge,” Blake points out, smiling but still managing to put out that ‘I’m your captain and I’m disappointed in you’ vibe. “You two were almost as late as he was.”

“Well, I had stuff to do too,” Brandon says.

Adam waves at the group. “Hi, I’m stuff.”

“We knew,” Sami says, completely deadpan. “You are obvious.”

“I resent that,” Adam says, feigning indignation. “We can be subtle.”

Sami just points at Brandon’s chest. “That is not your shirt.”

Adam flushes, because Sami saying it is just another reminder that Brandon’s in his shirt. Is it a possessiveness thing? It might be a possessiveness thing. Or just a _thing _thing.

Blake rolls his eyes and lets out a long-suffering sigh, like he always does when he has to wrangle them like a bunch of rowdy children. “Guys, let’s act like adults and _not _horny teenagers for a night, please?” He shares a look with Mark, something fond and exasperated, and Adam kinda wants to shove Mark over just to see if they accidentally kiss. He won’t, because this really isn’t the setting for Mark and Blake’s Gay Awakening, but he’s tempted.

Now that Nik’s here they flag down a waitress and place their orders. Everyone chirps Adam for ordering the most basic pasta dish on the menu, and then they all chirp Nik for _still _not having decided when it’s his turn to order. Eventually Patty just picks one of the two he’s been agonizing over and orders for him, because—and Adam will maintain this opinion forever, no matter what everyone says about _him _and his simple food choices—Nikolaj is the _worst _person to go to dinner with.

They all chat amongst themselves about their lives, about hockey, about interesting things they’ve seen on the news or whatever. Adam throws his arm around Brandon’s shoulder and Brandon puts a hand on his thigh, and he can almost forget that he’s wearing a tie that’s been recently used in literal sexy bondage.

“So, Valentine’s is coming up,” Mark says at some point, grinning at Nik. Everyone makes kissy faces or waggles their eyebrows and Nikolaj groans, because he’s been dealing with this for _years_. Tough shit, he’s the one who decided to be born on Valentine’s day.

“Why are you all like this,” he whines. “Why aren’t we asking Rusty and Lows what they’re doing for Valentine’s?”

Oh, shit. Now suddenly everyone’s looking at them.

“That’s a good question,” Ben says with a cheeky grin, leaning across the table. “Any romantic plans for you two? Are you gonna buy each other flowers? Chocolates?”

“Strawberry flavoured lube?” Patrik asks, maintaining the straight face even as Nik dissolves into giggles beside him.

“First of all,” Adam says, pointing at Patty, “flavoured lube is fucking gross, it tastes like medicine. And second of all,” he directs his gaze at Ben, who still has a smug grin stretched across his face, “_I’m _not the one who regularly brings in chocolate to a teammate.”

Ben’s grin drops, and Sami’s eyes go wide. “It’s not always—and I’m just teaching him about Canadian candy, it’s not—” Finally Ben seems to realize he’s digging himself even deeper, and he shuts up.

Adam leans back, satisfied.

“I don’t think we have any V-day plans,” Brandon says beside him, shrugging into Adam’s arm. “Not yet, at least.”

Adam nods. “A lot of sex, probably.”

With a laugh, Brandon smacks the back of his hand against Adam’s chest. “Good plan, babe.” Adam’s grinning, smug, until—until Brandon winds his hand around the tie again and just sorta keeps it there. “Dinner, maybe? _Then _all the sex.”

That’s. Not fucking fair. Adam tries to say something, feels it failing before it’s even out of his mouth, and just nods instead.

Okay, if Brandon wearing his shirts is _maybe _a possessiveness thing, Adam wearing Brandon’s tie is _definitely _a possessiveness thing.

Everyone’s sorta laughing at his reaction, but it’s better than him trying to talk and only letting out a squeak, or something. So he just keeps quiet, and lets the rest of them move onto some other topic.

Eventually they finish eating, and Nik convinces all of them they definitely need to go out to a bar. So everyone drives to Adam’s place, because it’s the closest and his building has good parking, and Adam heads into his bedroom to dress down a little while they wait for the Ubers to show up.

He’s expecting it when Brandon follows, slipping off his blazer and tossing it onto Adam’s bed. He’s _not _expecting Brandon to unbutton the top few buttons of Adam’s shirt and stuff the tie into the pocket of Adam’s jeans.

“Just in case,” he says with a wink.

“I hate you.” It’s even worse that Brandon’s not wearing the blazer to conceal the shirt—oh, and now he’s slipping into one of Adam’s leather jackets, because he’s _evil_. “I legitimately hate you.”

Brandon just grins.

When they all make it to their chosen club and pile out of their two Uber cars—Adam and Brandon were stuck with Patty and Nik, and he’s honestly not sure who had to deal with worse sexual tension—Brandon takes his hand and doesn’t let go until they’re inside and they’ve all gotten themselves drinks. They all find themselves another booth and the night goes on, even if it’s too loud to have a proper conversation.

Ben goads Sami into trying to pronounce a bunch of ridiculous drink names, and Blake and Mark settle into the corner to, predictably, talk about hockey. At some point Nik drags Patty onto the dance floor and they grind like college students, which is a sight to see and also just makes Adam more impressed that they haven’t figured themselves out yet.

“Ah, young love,” Brandon snickers when he catches Adam watching. “Remember when we were that stupid?”

“We were never that stupid,” Adam says, because it’s true. Like, they were dumb, but they weren’t _Patrik and Nikolaj_ dumb. Nobody can be that.

Brandon shrugs, tucked under Adam’s arm again. “I guess you’re right.”

“Excuse you, I’m absolutely right.”

Brandon laughs, and squeezes Adam’s knee. “Wanna dance?” He looks up at Adam through his lashes, coy and challenging all at once. “We can show those idiots how it’s done.”

Adam turns to tell the rest of the gang where they’re going—but Blake and Mark are as captivated with each other as ever, and Sami’s half-drunk and laughing into Ben’s shoulder. “Looks like we won’t be missed,” he says, letting Brandon pull him out of his seat and out into the crowd.

Brandon winds his arms around Adam’s neck, Adam puts his hands on Brandon’s hips, and they fall into a rhythm. Adam likes dancing with Brandon; neither of them are really dancers, but it doesn’t take much to move in time with another person. And Brandon’s so pretty looking up at him, and so hot grinding against him.

“Hey,” Brandon murmurs, leaning up to speak right into Adam’s ear, “I wanna ride you later.”

So, Adam’s pretty sure he just literally died for a second. “Oh my god you’re gonna fucking _kill me_.” He drops his head against Brandon’s, fingers riding up under Brandon’s—_his_—shirt. “I’m gonna _die_.”

“What a way to go, though, right?” Brandon presses a kiss to his throat, and then a laugh. “It’d make a really good story for me to tell at your funeral.”

“You’re so fucking insatiable,” Adam whines. “I can’t keep up with you.”

Brandon does this really filthy thing with his hips, and Adam groans. “You’re keeping up just fine, babe.”

Adam really needs Brandon to stop talking, so he sticks tilts his head and sticks his tongue down his throat. It’s a really good tactic. And even if Brandon takes control a few seconds later and sorta makes Adam forget why he did it in the first place, well, that’s even better.

(Brandon does end up riding Adam later. He keeps the shirt on.

Adam doesn’t die, but he comes pretty goddamn close.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tumblr](http://soft-eldritch.tumblr.com/) // [twitter](http://twitter.com/softeldritch)


	3. nikolaj/patrik, pining

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: “I think about you all the time.”
> 
> prompted by anon on [tumblr](https://soft-eldritch.tumblr.com/post/183875232658/6-pattynik), very slight nsfw warning

Two weeks into the offseason, Patrik wakes up to go for a run and notices that he has seven missed calls and three voicemails from Nikolaj, so. Nikolaj must’ve been drunk. There are none of the mispelled, horribly punctuated texts Patrik usually expects from drunk Nikolaj, but sometimes he just drinks straight through the stage where he’s able to text and gets right to the point of drunk calling.

It’s not the first time Nikolaj has pestered Patrik while drinking, so Patrik decides to go on his run, grab something to eat, and then listen to what’ll probably be three messages of Nik telling him he should come hang out, even though they’re currently in two different countries. Drunk calls from Nikolaj are always great chirping material, and he’s running low on that now that they’re not constantly together.

He completes his run, makes himself some eggs and grabs a banana, and settles in to listen to the voicemails while he eats.

The first one opens up on a few seconds of silence, and right away Patrik notices that Nik’s not at a club or a bar. Huh. Drinking at home, maybe?

“Hey, Patty,” Nikolaj says. “I guess you’re asleep. I should probably be asleep too, but I can’t, so I’m calling you I guess?” He laughs, a little self-defeated, and Patrik wonders whether he’s drinking at all. “I dunno. We should hang out this summer. If you’re not super busy, or whatever.” There’s a long, quiet sigh on the other end. “This is dumb, you’re asleep. Talk to you later.” And the message ends.

Patrik stares at his phone. That … was weird. And the existence of the other two voicemails is even weirder. Did Nikolaj decide sleep wasn’t working and get drunk _then_? It’s confusing, and now Patrik’s even more curious about the rest.

The next one starts with Nikolaj straight up saying, “you know, I miss your dick.”

Patrik jumps, glancing around before he realizes his family is on a weekend trip and he’s the only one home. Then he grins. Only Nik would send—what’s the name, a booty call?—when Patrik can’t respond.

“We had fun. Do you—no, that’s stupid, of course you remember.” A pause. “I’m remembering right now. That thing you did, with your hand on my neck.” He sounds flustered about it even now, which is so Nik. He’s never been able to just call it choking. It’s cute. “And your stupid face when you come—it’s not attractive, but it’s also really hot. I hate that.”

_“Like you can talk,”_ Patrik wants to say, but it’s a voicemail and that’d be dumb.

“I tried having a one night stand a few days ago,” Nikolaj says, and Patrik—Patrik is not expecting whatever rush of something he just felt. He doesn’t like the idea of Nik fucking someone else. Which is dumb, because they were only ever friends with benefits. He has no claim. “But he was boring. I, uh, actually left before he woke up.”

_“Good,”_ Patrik thinks. _“Nobody is as good as me.”_

“Is it stupid to say you—okay, no, that’s stupid. Sorry.” Now Patrik wants to know what Nik was about to say. “Sorry for all of this, this is really—okay.” He laughs. “I’m gonna hang up now.”

He does, and Patrik’s left wondering what the hell is in that third voicemail. It was sent over an hour after the last one.

When he plays it, it starts with silence again. Then Nik audibly breathes in, and says, “I miss you.”

Patrik’s heartbeat shifts up a gear.

“I know we weren’t—I wasn’t supposed to.” He huffs, clearly frustrated. “Not like this. We’re supposed to be buddies, right? Just buddies. Buddies who fuck sometimes. But—I think I did this wrong.” He’s quiet for a long time, just breathing, and Patrik wants to—he’s not sure. He wants to be there, somehow. “It was never just a buddy thing for me. And I thought that was enough. And I thought the break would help, because I wouldn’t have to see your stupid face all the time.”

Nik almost sounds like he’s going to cry. Patrik doesn’t know what he’ll do if that happens.

“But that didn’t work, did it? I think about you all the time. I can’t _stop _thinking about you.” He sniffs, and Patrik’s heart stops, but there’s no sounds of actual crying. Just Nik, sounding absolutely heartbroken. “Maybe I’m just way too tired, but I think I’m in love with you?” He laughs again, self-defeated. “Or, uh, I don’t think. I am. Definitely.” Another laugh. It sounds a little crazed, like he’s gotten past the point of exhaustion. “Sorry. I’ll leave you alone now.”

Then the voicemail ends, and Patrik’s left alone with a lot of questions and a decision to make. Only the more he thinks about it, the more he realizes it’s not a decision at all, and he drags over his laptop as he dials Nik’s number.

Nik answers with, “please tell me you didn’t listen to those.” He sounds miserable and totally humiliated, and it’d be kind of adorable if it wasn’t so sad.

“I did,” Patrik says, typing in his search term one-handed. It’ll be expensive on short notice, but worth it.

“Oh god,” Nik mumbles. It sounds muffled, like he’s saying it into his hand. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. I was tired and I wasn’t thinking. Please—“ He cuts himself off, like he doesn’t even know what he’s asking for.

“Are you free today?” Patrik asks, confirming his purchase.

Nikolaj’s quiet. Then, almost whispering, “why?”

“You need to pick me up from the airport.”

A long pause. Patrik takes the time to get up, starting the hunt for his go-bag. He’s not gonna pack too much, just enough for a few days, and anything more he’ll figure out later. It’d be better if Nikolaj came home with _him_, because suddenly Patrik wants to fuck Nik in his bed and see Nik in his clothes. He’s discovering a possessive side of himself and he kinda likes it.

“Wait,” Nikolaj says. “Wait, what’s going on?”

Luckily for Nik, Patrik knows how his brain gets stuck sometimes. “I’m flying over there,” he says patiently.

“Why?”

“I want to hear you say it in person.” He hears Nikolaj’s quick intake of breath, and smiles to himself. Good, he understood what Patrik meant by that. “And I want to say it back.”

Nikolaj is quiet. “Is this a joke?”

“Not really,” Patrik says. “It wouldn’t be very funny anyway. Also, my plane should be there at 6:30. I’ll text you the flight number.”

“You’re serious.”

“Yeah.”

“What the fuck, Patty.” Nikolaj almost sounds like he’s hyperventilating. Hopefully he doesn’t pass out, as funny as that would be. “You can’t just do that. Are you insane?” He laughs. “This, uh, is this really happening?”

Patrik grins, because Nik really is adorable. “See you at 6:30,” he says, and then he hangs up.

* * *

When he sees Nikolaj in the airport, he practically runs towards him. Nikolaj looks dumbstruck, like he still can’t believe this is happening, so Patrik grabs his jaw in one hand and pulls him in with the other on the small of his back and kisses that stupid look right off his face. He wonders, for a second, if someone might take a picture—and then Nik clutches at his shirt and deepens the kiss and he decides maybe he doesn’t care.

“This is so fucking dramatic,” Nikolaj mumbles against his mouth when they part for air. “What movie did you pull this from?”

“I didn’t need a movie,” Patrik says, spreading both hands across Nikolaj’s back. “I just wanted to see you.”

Nik laughs, leaning back to look at Patrik properly. His eyes look really blue in this light, but maybe they’re just really blue in general. Now that Patrik’s allowed to notice stuff like that, he’s noticing hard. “You’re so stupid.”

“You’re worse than me.” Nikolaj scoffs, still giggling, and Patrik grins right back. He presses his fingers into the skin of Nikolaj’s back and leans forward to kiss his forehead. “But it’s okay, I love you.”

The mocking edge of Nik’s smile softens, and he looks up at Patrik with big blue eyes. “Me too,” he says softly. “I love you too.”

They stand there hugging for a really long time, and Patrik starts to understand why everyone likes sappy romantic shit so much. If just holding Nik makes him feel like this, he wants to keep him forever. If only they’d figured this out earlier.

“Hey, Patty,” Nik says, his face still half-buried in Patrik’s neck, “you deleted those voicemails, right?”

Patrik laughs, and holds Nik even tighter. “Nope. They’re mine. I like them.”

Nikolaj groans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tumblr](http://soft-eldritch.tumblr.com/) // [twitter](http://twitter.com/softeldritch)


	4. nikolaj/patrik, touch addiction?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: hey, i’m liking your photos at 2am because i want to make out. i’m texting you at noon because i want to make out. i woke up today because i (we don’t need words)
> 
> prompted by kendall on [tumblr](https://soft-eldritch.tumblr.com/post/185041337423/11-with-pattynik), vague nsfw warning

Somewhere along the way, Nikolaj developed an addiction to _touch_. An itch, lingering just under his skin, flaring up like a wildfire or flickering like a candle, but. Always present, always _noticeable_ to some degree, no matter what he’s doing or where he is. Always stronger, when Patrik isn’t there, and somehow even worse when he is.

It’s not even Nikolaj’s fault. Patrik is the type of person who carves out a space for himself wherever he goes, expecting everything else to mould around him like second nature. It makes sense that a relationship with him would be no different; he’s shoved himself into Nikolaj’s life, tucked into every crack Nikolaj has. Sometimes it’s a little like drowning, because Patrik _surrounds_ him, smothers him and drags him under, makes him feel like he can’t breathe.

Sometimes he really can’t breathe. Nikolaj’s a bit addicted to _that_ kind of touch, too.

* * *

“I’m gonna hang back and shoot a bit,” Patrik says, pressed up against Nikolaj’s side, tapping his stick against Nikolaj’s shins. Nikolaj drinks in the feeling of being so close, the warmth of Patrik’s body against his. A crooked smile tugs at Patrik’s mouth and Nikolaj feels the urge, fingers curling in his gloves. “Stay with me?”

It’s the end of practice and everyone else is skating off and heading down the tunnel. Usually Nikolaj would be joining them, but he and Patrik drove here together, and he doesn’t feel like changing and coming to sit in the stands. Wearing a t-shirt and jeans to watch his boyfriend practice his accuracy feels a little too much like a WAG thing.

So he pats Patrik’s ass and grins at him. “Sure, go show off. Just don’t take too long.”

Patrik skates off with a mock salute, and Nikolaj feels the loss of him in a shiver just under his skin. He wants to reach out, to skate back up against Patrik’s side and tuck ungloved hands up under his jersey, to crane his neck and mouth at Patrik’s jaw. _Time and place_, he reminds himself, hands curling into fists, ignoring the twitch in his thighs urging him to _move_. Sometimes, against Nikolaj’s nature, staying still is the smarter play than being in constant motion.

The thing is, nobody plays in the NHL if they’re not a little bit turned on by good hockey, and Patrik practicing his accuracy is really good hockey. A flicker of heat flares to life in Nikolaj’s belly, watching Patrik fire the puck up at the crossbar. He squirms when Patrik glances at him with a proud grin, and squirms more when Patrik calls out the post he’s gonna hit and the _ting_ of rubber on metal echoes through the empty arena seconds later. His spine tingles with the urge to go over and pull Patrik into his space, toss their helmets aside and lick into Patrik’s mouth.

Patrik hits the corner, where the post and the crossbar intersect, and Nikolaj’s resolve crumbles. His helmet hits the ice with a clatter and skids out of sight, his gloves following soon after.

Sharp blue eyes catch on his when Nikolaj’s close enough to touch. Patrik barely looks surprised when Nikolaj tugs off his helmet. He just shakes off his gloves, cups his rough hands around Nikolaj’s cheeks, and meets him halfway in a searing kiss.

The itch under Nikolaj’s skin settles, and the rest of him lights up with the feeling of Patrik’s mouth moving against his, the warmth of Patrik’s fingers curved around his jaw. Patrik digs his teeth into Nikolaj’s lower lip and this soft little whine slips loose from Nikolaj’s throat and his head’s already swimming from so little. He wraps his arms around Patrik’s waist, dragging their bodies together to soak in the warmth. Their height difference means he has to tilt his head at an uncomfortable angle—somehow the wires have gotten crossed in his head, twisted up and jumbled like the rest of him whenever Patrik’s touching him, because that ache just makes him burn even brighter.

They make out slow and lazy in the middle of the ice. Going at Patrik’s pace, because they do everything at Patrik’s pace. Nikolaj’s fingers are curling and his spine’s buzzing, but Patrik’s a solid weight when he tries to press and push for more.

The desperation cools. It always does. Patrik can soothe it as well as he can rile it up.

Nikolaj’s still breathing hard when they part. He opens his eyes after a second to see Patrik smirking down at him, subtle and smug. Embarrassment flushes up his cheeks. “Let’s head out,” he says, ignoring the tremor in his voice, the thickness of his accent. “I’m tired of waiting.”

Patrik’s head tilts, and the smirk curls wider, wickeder. “I know, Nik, you don’t like to sit still,” he says, and Nikolaj doesn’t think he’s talking about hockey anymore.

Everyone else has cleared out by the time they’re back in the locker room. It means Nikolaj doesn’t have to keep his distance from Patrik when they’re heading into the shower; it means Patrik can curl a hand around the back of his neck, the weight of it like an anchor, dragging him back under.

“Shower with me,” Patrik suggests. It’s a bad idea—_hockey_ and _them_ are supposed to be two separate things—but Nikolaj leans into Patrik’s weight and steps under the spray with him anyway.

And then, because there’s nobody around to see, he winds his arms around Patrik’s neck and leans up to kiss him. The problem is that this time there’s no layers of clothing and padding between them, nothing preventing Nikolaj from grinding against Patrik’s thigh, no reason not to plaster himself against Patrik’s wet skin and _writhe_.

It’s a problem, except from this perspective, Nikolaj’s pretty sure it’s not a problem at all.

Judging by the way Patrik grabs his ass and drags him impossibly closer, he doesn’t think so either.

* * *

Before Patrik started fucking him, if Nikolaj woke up horny, he’d begrudgingly stumble into the shower to take care of it. Before Patrik moved in, Nikolaj’d maybe send Patrik a text full of half-awake promises to entice him out of his bed and into Nikolaj’s. Sometimes he’d forget what he promised in the time it took Patrik to come over. Patrik, of course, never forgot once, and always collected what was owed to him. He’s an asshole, like that.

Now, though, Nikolaj wakes up horny and needy and there’s a warm body right there; curled around him or draped over him or solid and soft underneath him. He’s horny in the mornings a lot more now. Maybe because he can smell Patrik’s scent while he’s sleeping, or because his body’s so tuned into Patrik that he feels the itch to touch even in sleep. Doesn’t really matter, because he’s not gonna complain.

Today, Nikolaj wakes up still groggy from a dream involving a lot of warmth and slickness and Patrik’s bright blue eyes, and there’s a familiar knot of arousal burning at the base of his spine. Him and Patrik are pressed together, Patrik’s arm slung over his waist.

It’s too early to think too hard about the soft, vulnerable feeling echoing in his chest, or the way his hands are itching to curl against Patrik’s bare skin, or how in his exhaustion he’s desperate for Patrik’s arms to wrap around him and squeeze so tight it’s hard to breathe. Nikolaj just knows he’s craving the taste of Patrik’s mouth and the weight of his hands, so he burrows even closer and presses a gentle, open-mouthed kiss to Patrik’s neck. It’s not enough to wake him but it’s enough to make him stir, so Nikolaj does it again.

Patrik wakes up slowly. Nikolaj’s kissed a trail up to his stubbled jaw by the time he finally makes a questioning noise and presses his palm flat against the small of Nikolaj’s back. “Niky?” he murmurs, his accent thick with sleep.

Instead of responding—or as a response—Nikolaj kisses him properly, soft and slow and a little bit helpless. Patrik’s mouth tastes like morning. “Gross,” Nikolaj says, and deepens the kiss.

“You’re gross,” Patrik chirps, rolling Nikolaj onto his back, caging him in with arms bracketing his head and the heavy weight of his body. He kisses Nikolaj harder, licking into his mouth, and Nikolaj can’t swallow down the moan building in the back of his throat.

Nikolaj’s addicted to this, too; Patrik holding him down with just his body, big and broad and solid. He never really knew how much he got off on feeling—well, _small_. Not until Patrik.

His mouth’s busy, so he tells it to Patrik without words. Pushing and squirming up against his weight just to feel more trapped, nudging his hands against Patrik’s until Patrik takes the hint and laces their fingers together, pinning Nikolaj’s hands up near his head. It’s embarrassing how right it feels to be held down, how part of him cracks open and goes loose when Patrik takes control.

Nikolaj’ll never admit it. He’s pretty sure Patrik knows anyway.

* * *

A few times, Nikolaj’s heard the wives and girlfriends of the team talk about finding the guys in their game day suits irresistible. Right now he thinks maybe he gets it, because Patty’s sitting in the passenger seat of his car in an all-black suit and Nikolaj wants nothing more than to climb into his lap and mess up his hair. Which is a problem, because Nikolaj’s fucking driving, and just looking at Patrik right now is making him feel drunk.

He manages to get them to the arena without crashing by only sneaking glances when they’re at red lights, imagining Patrik’s hands on his waist, on his hips, on the small of his back. When he parks and cuts the engine it takes actual effort to not awkwardly climb over the centre console and straddle Patrik’s thighs and kiss until it consumes him.

Patrik gives him a look, caught between curious and smug, like he knows why Nikolaj’s hands are a little too tight around the steering wheel. Then he shrugs and gets out of the car, and that particular temptation disappears.

Of course, once Nikolaj’s out of the car too, the five inches Patrik has on him seem even more obvious. Nikolaj’s weak for a tall guy in a good suit.

They’re supposed to be heading inside, and they’ll probably be the last ones there already, but. Nikolaj can’t help how much he wants Patrik up against him. It’s Patrik’s fault, because Patrik’s the one who got him addicted in the first place.

Nikolaj’s staring, and Patrik notices. “What’s up, Fly?” he asks with a grin, stepping close enough that the height difference is even more pronounced. See, that’s why it’s Patrik’s fault. He does shit like _this_.

So, Nikolaj doesn’t bother holding back, because he can blame it on Patrik later. He grabs the lapels of Patrik’s suit, earning a pout when the fabric wrinkles in his grip. Then he tugs Patrik close and backs himself up against the side of the car and kisses the stupid pout right off of Patrik’s face. It only takes Patrik a second to react—then he’s got his hands under Nikolaj’s suit jacket, splayed wide across his back, soaking heat through his dress shirt. He crushes Nikolaj against the car, shoves a leg between his thighs.

Nikolaj moans, need making him dizzy and trembling. He started this but now he’s just along for the ride, desperately hanging on and trying not to lose his grip.

Patrik bites his lower lip, keeps biting a trail across his jaw and down his neck, latches onto his pulse and sucks so hard Nikolaj whines.

“Fuck,” Nikolaj groans, toes curling, hips stuttering. “I want—”

Suddenly Patrik’s hand is curled around his jaw, his thumb pressing over Nikolaj’s lips to shut him up. Nikolaj can take a hint. He just bites Patrik’s thumb instead, licks at it, sucks it into his mouth. Patrik curses, biting hard enough to leave a mark. And, well, that’s what Nikolaj wanted in the first place, so he moans and tilts his head to give Patrik more room.

Patrik bites another bruise just under Nikolaj’s jaw and then kisses his way back up, his thumb tugging at Nikolaj’s lower lip before his mouth replaces it. He drags his thumb down the arch of Nikolaj’s throat and rests his hand just a bit too close to wrapping around Nikolaj’s neck and despite the lack of pressure Nikolaj still can’t breathe. It’s just—Patrik is a _lot_, sometimes, and the way he touches Nikolaj is overwhelming.

Maybe Nikolaj wants that. Maybe sometimes he needs his brain to go all fuzzy from Patrik digging his fingers in too hard to the flesh of his waist.

They make out until Nikolaj’s starting to lose his balance, slumped back against the car and half-perched on Patrik’s thigh. It’s all he can do to hold onto Patrik’s suit to keep himself upright.

Eventually Patrik tugs at Nikolaj’s lower lip with his teeth and pulls back enough to give them both room to breathe. Nikolaj’s eyelids feel too heavy to open just yet, so he stands there focusing on the warmth of Patrik’s body against his and the weight of Patrik’s hands on him. Which is probably stupid, because he needs to clear his head, not make it even fuzzier, but as long as he’s trapped here there’s nothing he can think of _but_ Patrik.

“We should go,” Patrik says, stroking his thumb up and down the front of Nikolaj’s throat. That _really_doesn’t help. “We have a game.”

“Yeah,” Nikolaj says breathlessly, because Patrik’s right. Doesn’t mean he has to like it. He opens his eyes to see Patrik smirking at him, crooked and smug, and the heat lingering under his skin flares up again. “Shut up.”

“Needy,” Patrik teases, pinching Nikolaj’s waist so he squirms. “Don’t worry, it’s cute.”

Nikolaj rolls his eyes. He shoves Patrik off, ignoring the way his legs feel like they’re gonna crumple as he pushes off the car and stands up properly. “You look good today,” he says as explanation. Like that’s the only reason. Like he’s not desperate for Patrik to touch him all the time, no matter what Patrik’s wearing.

Patrik grins, because he knows all that. “C’mon,” he says. “Let’s go win.”

“Get a goal and maybe we can continue this later,” Nikolaj says, falling into step beside him.

“_Maybe_.”

So maybe it’s not a maybe. Nikolaj doesn’t ever have to admit that. “Yeah, maybe,” he laughs, bumping his shoulder against Patrik’s. “So you better get a goal if you wanna get anything tonight. If I’m in the mood.” The way he grins up at Patrik is probably a little too coy for what he’s trying to pull off here.

It doesn’t end up mattering. Patrik doesn’t get a goal. He gets three.

* * *

“You’re drunk,” Patrik says, when Nikolaj collapses into his lap.

“No I’m not,” Nikolaj giggles. He winds an arm around Patrik’s shoulders for balance, since somewhere in between all the shots and the dancing with Jack and Kyle the world’s started spinning. That, combined with the bass pounding in his spine and the colourful lights flashing in his eyes, is making it hard for Nikolaj to think straight. That’s probably why he sees Patrik’s dumb face and the cute little mole on his neck and wants to climb up in his space and make his stupid unimpressed expression crack.

That’s the issue with Patrik. He’s way too controlled all the time. Too chill, when a lot of the time just being near him makes Nikolaj feel like he’s gonna vibrate out of his skin. It’s not fair.

So Nikolaj wiggles his ass and presses a kiss to Patrik’s neck, grinning when Patrik’s hand immediately squeezes painfully tight around his hip. “Come dance,” he says, craning his neck to say it directly into Patrik’s ear. “I wanna dance.”

Patrik’s hand drags down to his thigh and squeezes there, too. Heat ignites in Nikolaj’s gut. “You just danced with Rosie,” he says, his voice low. He sounds a little pissed. It’s hot.

Nikolaj wriggles again. “I wanna dance with _you_.”

“Maybe I don’t want to.”

Nikolaj pouts. “C’mon, Patty.” He leans back enough to see Patrik properly, looking up through his lashes the way Patrik always likes. With his free hand he starts playing with the collar of Patrik’s shirt, tugging at the buttons, just barely letting his fingertips brush along bare skin. “Please? I’ll owe you.” He’s not gonna specify what he owes, because half the fun is letting Patrik come up with something. Patrik has really, _really_ good ideas.

The look Patrik gives him sends a shiver down his spine. “Brat.” He shoves Nikolaj off his lap, steadying him with a hand on his waist before he can stumble, and stands up after him.

Nikolaj all but drags him onto the dance floor. Then he presses close, arms draped around Patrik’s shoulders, hips moving to the beat of the music. Everything’s floaty and bubbly like champagne and everywhere he’s touching Patrik feels electric. Especially when Patrik gets both hands on his hips, big and warm, and turns Nikolaj’s dancing into a slow, rolling grind against his thigh. Nikolaj muffles his moan against Patrik’s neck and tries not to lose his balance even though he feels loose and boneless.

Fuck. Patrik smells good and feels warm and Nikolaj’s maybe a little drunk, off vodka and cocktails and the bassy music thrumming through his bloodstream. He wants Patrik so badly it’s dizzying.

“Patty,” he says indistinctly.

Patrik digs his thumbs into Nikolaj’s hip bones, drawing out a whine. “Yeah?”

Nikolaj doesn’t really have anything else to say, so he just crushes their mouths together for a kiss. It’s sloppy and a bit too forceful until Patrik angles his head properly and the kiss turns absolutely _filthy_. Nikolaj can’t help moaning, feeling the music more than hearing it as he rolls his hips to the beat. It’s just fucking _good_, the way Patrik’s kissing him, the way he’s guiding Nikolaj’s hips, and—_fuck_ he loves it when Patrik takes control like this.

He gets lost in sensation. There’s nothing but Patrik’s hands on him and Patrik’s mouth against his and Patrik’s warmth, coaxing noises from Nikolaj’s throat, sending electricity down his spine.

Then the song changes, and something about that catches Nikolaj’s attention, and suddenly he realizes he’s basically making out with Patrik and fucking _riding his thigh_ in the middle of a club. Shame burns hot under his skin, and arousal burns even hotter. _Bad idea_, the smart part of his mind tells him. They just won a game in a big hockey city and this is exactly the type of shit that could end up online, but—

_Fuck it_, Nikolaj thinks, and grinds their hips together. Patrik’s the sober one. He can make the decisions for both of them, right now.

* * *

Nikolaj should probably be helping Patrik do dishes, instead of sitting on the island counter and staring at the line of his shoulders as he moves. But dishes suck, and Nikolaj’s still nursing a sprained finger, and the shirt Patrik’s wearing somehow _really_ emphasizes how big he is. It’s a lot easier to just let his feet dangle and daydream about Patrik’s arms.

“What time are Sami and Benny coming over?” he asks, stretching out his leg to poke Patrik in the back with his toe.

Patrik half-turns, eyes narrowed. “Eight.”

About ten minutes away. “You should hurry up, then,” Nikolaj says through a grin, poking Patrik’s back again.

This time Patrik doesn’t turn around. “You should help.”

“I’m injured, Patty, I’m _resting_.”

“You can’t use that excuse if you played last night.”

Fair, but also, Nikolaj doesn’t wanna do dishes and he knows Patrik’s a sucker for his pouting. That’s basically why he hasn’t tugged Nikolaj off the counter and shoved him towards the sink.

So Nikolaj shuts up and starts staring again, wishing Patrik was shirtless so he could see the movement of muscle beneath his skin. He likes … reminders. Of how strong Patrik is. Like, he _knows_Patrik’s strong, because he’s a hockey player. It’s kind of inherent. But there’s a difference between that and the effortless way Patrik just _moves_ him sometimes, the way he can shove Nikolaj against something and keep him there.

Probably a bad train of thought to follow when Ben and Sami are coming over in less than ten minutes.

He looks away from Patrik, trying to think of anything. Hockey stats, maybe. But now the image is in his head—Patrik caging him in, pressing bruising kisses down his throat, holding him in place with hands on his thighs. A prickling, uncomfortable heat floods his entire body, a shudder running up his spine. Fuck Patrik for turning him into this. Nikolaj was never this desperate for physical touch before he fell in love with Patrik.

“Hey, Patty,” he says. Patrik’s just finished up with the dishes, and he turns around still tugging off the rubber gloves. He steps closer to Nikolaj, looking like he’s about to say something, and Nikolaj doesn’t even give him the chance to open his mouth before hooking his leg around Patrik’s waist and tugging him in.

Patrik comes surprisingly easy. He steps right into Nikolaj’s space, big hands curling around his thighs like he knows exactly what Nikolaj was thinking.

“Hi,” Patrik says drily.

Nikolaj hooks his ankles together behind Patrik’s back, curls both hands around the back of Patrik’s neck, and tugs him down into a kiss. He doesn’t feel like explaining himself. He just wants Patrik’s mouth on his, slow and lazy and intoxicating.

Patrik gets the message. He presses Nikolaj backwards with his body, tipping him until he’s off-balance, making him breathless and unsteady. The kiss stays slow, just mouths moving together and Patrik’s teeth grazing deliberately over Nikolaj’s lower lip. Patrik digs his fingers into Nikolaj’s thighs and makes him shudder and sigh into the kiss, electricity crawling under his skin from the weight of Patrik’s hands.

It’s not enough and too much all at once, balanced right on the edge of overwhelming. Nikolaj wants to exist here, preserved in this moment forever, loose and pliant under Patrik’s touch.

Then the buzz of the intercom rings through the apartment.

Nikolaj groans, ducking away from Patrik’s mouth and curling forward until his face is tucked into Patrik’s neck. “Fuck,” he mutters, ignoring the way Patrik’s shoulders are shaking in silent laughter. “Go let them up.”

“Sure,” Patrik says, squeezing Nikolaj’s thighs before pulling away. His face is flushed, but he’s got this stupid smug grin that burrows under Nikolaj’s skin and stays there. “You should take a second. To, uh, calm down.” He leans forward, kisses Nikolaj’s cheek softly enough it makes him shiver. “Be right back, babe.”

He steps away and heads out of sight, and Nikolaj’s space feels empty and cold without him.

Then Patrik’s voice carries through the apartment as he calls out, “we’ll pick it back up later,” and Nikolaj’s body hums with the promise. Maybe that’s the thing. Maybe he’s a mess of need and desperation most of the time, but he always ends up getting what he wants. That’s probably the important thing.

Doesn’t mean he’s not a _little_ angry at Ben and Sami, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tumblr](http://soft-eldritch.tumblr.com/) // [twitter](http://twitter.com/softeldritch)


	5. adam/brandon, 80s-ish au

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt:  
30\. In a dark, dark wood there was a dark, dark house and in that dark, dark house I think we should get drunk and fool around. (I want dirt under my fingernails.)  
31\. I love the way your face lights up when someone says, “It might be dangerous.” (I am glad we are friends.)
> 
> prompted by anon on [tumblr](https://soft-eldritch.tumblr.com/post/185983529548/anonymous-asked-30-31-for-adambrandon-potential), warning for internalized homophobia and mentions of period-typical homophobia

(When Adam’s fifteen years old, tall and gangly and awkward, he hears about some teenagers sleeping through the night at the cabin in the woods. He grew up in a small town, and like every small town, there’s an urban legend all the kids tell each other growing up. In their case it’s the abandoned cabin in the woods at the edge of town. Everyone knows about it, and everyone knows the stories—about how the guy who owned it murdered his wife and then killed himself, or how it was used for human sacrifices by creepy satanic cultists. 

Like everything else he tells Brandon about it. Brandon grins, big and toothy, and says, “we’re gonna do that when we’re older.”

Adam stares far, far down at him. “Isn’t that dangerous?”

“Yeah,” Brandon says, a glint in his dark eyes, “that’s the point.”

Adam’s young and stupid and in love, so he says, “yeah, you’re right.”)

* * *

Adam’s probably just as stupid and definitely just as in love now, but he’s grown into himself, not awkward anymore, bulking up with all the sports he plays. And Brandon’s still shorter than him, but not as short. Not that it’s ever mattered, anyway, because Brandon’s always been bigger and brighter than everyone else in the room no matter how tall he is. 

It’s kind of a problem sometimes. Brandon gets himself in a lot of trouble that Adam has to bail him out of. But Adam kinda likes that. Sometimes people are attracted to danger; Adam’s attracted to the fire in Brandon’s eyes when he’s about to get them both in trouble.

Like, say, right now. Brandon grins down at him, sitting on the edge of his bed while Adam kneels on his shitty old rug. “So, do we have our ghost-hunting kit?”

Adam glances down at their heavy-duty camping backpack full of shit. Flashlights, walkie-talkies, a box of salt, booze they paid Chris to get for them. Definitely everything amateur ghost hunters need. He looks back up at Brandon with a grin. “Looks like it’s all here.” He zips up the backpack with an air of finality, grabs his sleeping bag, and follows Brandon outside and to his truck.

They climb in together, Adam’s legs too long for the front seat. Brandon turns the station to some old rock, cranking down the windows to let in warm summer air as they both scream along to lyrics neither of them have ever been able to decipher completely. It’s a hot, wet evening in August, big grey clouds brewing overhead and blocking out the stars, only a hazy glow of moonlight filtering through. Perfect weather for a sleepover in a haunted cabin.

In September they’ll be going their separate ways; Adam’s going to college out of state, and Brandon’s moving to the city. It’ll be the first time they’ve lived apart for more than a month. Even when Brandon graduated and Adam was still stuck in his senior year of high school, Brandon just stuck around and worked, saving up a little more before heading off to university.

Adam’s afraid. He knows he’s not supposed to be, but he’s afraid of what Brandon will become without him. Brandon’s attractive and kind and deceptively wicked—all things Adam isn’t supposed to notice, but he (mostly) gave up on the shame of that years ago—and there’s no way he won’t meet a pretty girl in the city. She’ll probably be petite, maybe blonde, sweet and sensitive with a wild streak. They’ll hit it off right away, have a whirlwind romance and fall in love way too fast, before settling down. Adam’ll be the best man at the wedding and say some heartfelt speech about his best friend and his beautiful bride and how happy he is for both of them.

It’s maybe kinda possible that Adam’s spent too much time thinking about this.

Things _are _about to change, though, and Brandon _is _gonna meet new people. Pretty girls he’ll fool around with in the back of his truck. And Adam will be off in a new state, also meeting new people, pretending he never kissed that boy on the swim team back behind the bleachers.

“Hey.” Brandon’s voice pulls him out of his thoughts almost violently. Adam feels the back of his neck heating up and is suddenly really grateful that the streetlights on this stretch of the highway only work half the time. “You okay?”

Adam shrugs, plastering on a grin. “Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”

“You just had this weird look on your face,” Brandon says, his tone gentle despite the teasing smile on his face. “I thought you were gonna burst into tears, man.”

“Excuse you, I’m too manly to cry.”

A low, rumbling laugh spills into the space between them, and Brandon shrugs. “Hey, nothing unmanly about crying. Everyone’s gotta cry sometime.”

There’s a reason Adam always has to bail Brandon’s ass out of trouble. Brandon says shit like _that _sometimes. Stuff like_ I don’t think we should use gay as an insult, really_ and_ I dunno, girls can be just as tough as boys can_. Adam never knows what to think. Part of him wants to agree, and part of him—the bigger part, the coward—just brushes it off and pretends Brandon’s said nothing. 

He doesn’t want a target on his back. He’s never been as brave as Brandon is.

The truck turns off the highway and onto a dirt road, gravel spraying up around the tires and _tinging _off the metal of the wheel well. They drive into the forest, big black pines reaching up into the sky and quickly blocking out any light except for Brandon’s shitty headlights. That’s about the time the rain starts up, just spitting for now, tiny flecks of rain splattering the front window and spraying through the open windows. Brandon turns on his wipers, and they scrape across the window and leave big long streaks of water behind.

“Dude, your truck fucking sucks,” Adam says, trying to crank up his window so he’s not getting a faceful of cool rain.

“At least I have one,” Brandon points out, which. _Fair_. “How are you gonna get around without me this year?”

Adam doesn’t like thinking about doing _anything _with Brandon this year. But he matches Brandon’s teasing grin and says, “I live on campus, and everything I need’ll be a twenty minute walk at most. I won’t need your sorry-ass truck.”

_I’ll need you, though_.

“Don’t be so rude to her,” Brandon chastises, patting the wheel. “He didn’t mean it, baby, he’s just jealous.”

Sometimes Adam wonders what it’d be like to hear Brandon call _him _baby. Then he immediately shakes that thought away, because that’s something he’s definitely _not _supposed to be thinking. It’s one thing to kiss another boy just to try it, and there’s nothing he can do about being in love with his best friend (he’s _tried_, by god has he tried) but there’s definitely something wrong with wanting another guy to tenderly call him pet names. 

By the time they pull up at the end of the dirt road, the rain has steadily increased to a downpour. They stumble out together, rushing to grab their sleeping bags and their backpacks—Adam’s with the ghost hunting stuff, Brandon’s with about three days worth of food—and sprinting under the trees already drenched.

Brandon’s hair is plastered all over his forehead, and Adam cracks up laughing. “You look stupid,” he says, shoving at Brandon’s shoulder.

Brandon stands his ground and shoves right back. “Speak for yourself, buddy.” He stands there, shoulders back, hands on his hips. His shirt’s soaked through, clinging to his body, to the muscle in his arms and the definition of his stomach. “And besides, I bet I look _great_.”

He does, and Adam’s having trouble not staring. Bad thoughts. _Badbadbad _thoughts. “You look like a drowned rat,” he says, and pointedly doesn’t think about how much he wants to peel that shirt off Brandon’s skin and lick a path down his abs. “C’mon, we should get moving, it’s a long walk and I’m not carrying your ass when your short little legs can’t keep up.”

“Not all of us are ridiculous giants like you,” Brandon says, but he keeps up with Adam’s long stride easily. He always has, and Adam’s never been sure if it’s because he slows down intentionally or if it’s because Brandon’s larger than life.

They walk through the path in the woods together, by the light of Adam’s flashlight. It’s a dirt path, kinda overgrown with grass, poison ivy creeping along the edges. The trees grow in so thick here there’s barely any rain reaching them; just the sound of it, gentle and muted against soft evergreen needles.

Then they come up on a clearing that can barely be considered a clearing anymore, and Adam’s heart shoots up into his throat. 

There it is. The haunted cabin in the woods. It’s pretty small, all one floor and only a few rooms wide. The wood’s starting to rot, a mottled mixture of black and brown, slick with rain where the patchy trees have let it through. It looks almost ethereal in the hazy moonlight breaking through the trees. When Adam shines a flashlight at it he can see the windows are stained, barely even see-through anymore.

“Sick,” Brandon says, letting out a low whistle. “Let’s head in, huh?” 

When Adam shines the flashlight on him, his dark eyes are bright, and Adam’s heart stutters for a whole different reason than fear.

The door creaks when Brandon pushes it open. He shines his flashlight inside, illuminating old furniture half-eaten by moths and covered in dust and cobwebs. When Adam steps in after him a shiver runs up his spine.

“Creepy,” he says, shining his flashlight into the corners of the room. It looks like it was maybe a living room, half-attached to a kitchen on the far side, a half wall between them. “So, d’you think an old man really offed his wife here?”

Brandon tosses his sleeping bag into the middle of the floor, where it looks like there’s the least amount of dust. “Maybe. I kinda like the story about cultists, though.” He turns to Adam, shining his flashlight up under his face like they’re little kids telling horror stories. It only illuminates the sharp angles of his jaw and cheekbones, making Adam’s heart thump. “That would mean there’s a _demon _here, Lows, we’ll be sleeping in the same room as a demon.”

“That does sound a lot more fun than sleeping in the same room as some old dude who strangled his wife.”

“Gimme your bag,” Brandon says, so Adam does. He pulls out candles and matches, setting them on an old coffee table and lighting them. It immediately coats the room in an eerie glow, too dim to properly see by, enough to see flickering shadows in every corner. “There, now that’s some good haunted house atmosphere.”

“We should’ve looked up some sorta summoning ritual.”

“Dude.” Brandon stares up at him from where he’s sitting on the floor. “That would’ve been so good.”

Adam shrugs. Too late now, plus he’s not sure _where _they would’ve found something like that. The town library doesn’t seem like the kind of place to have anything, and even if they managed to get on the library computer, he’s pretty sure anything they could find would be blocked.

He sets his own sleeping bag out—a few feet away from Brandon’s, even though they used to sleep side-by-side at all their sleepovers when they were kids—and sits down too. “We could make something up,” he offers, before holding his hands out in front of him, palms down, fingers spread wide. “Our, uh, Satan who art in Hell, hallowed be thy name—”

Brandon giggles. “Dude, you can’t pray to the devil.”

“Why not?”

“I dunno, I’m just pretty sure it doesn’t work like that.”

Adam rolls his eyes. “Well that’s why we have candles, duh, that way it’s a ritual.”

“You’re such a dumbass,” Brandon says, his tone so fond that Adam’s skin tingles. He’s smiling at Adam, eyes even more big and dark in the low light. “But that’s okay, you’re _my _dumbass.”

Another shiver runs up Adam’s spine. “_You’re _a dumbass.”

“Oh, good comeback, Lows.”

“Whatever.” He makes grabby hands in Brandon’s direction. “Pass me a beer.”

Brandon tosses one over then grabs one for himself, and for a while they just sit on the dirty-ass floor and drink in silence. Adam tries not to think about how much this feels like a point-of-no-return type of thing. Instead, he starts thinking about the house they’re in—listening to the sound of rain pouring unevenly on the rotted wooden roof, feeling the cold air lingering around his body despite it being summer—and the nerves of this night with Brandon turn into something else entirely.

He’s not afraid of ghosts, really, but he’s not keen on getting killed by a demon either.

Sudden thunder rumbles overhead, so loud Adam can feel it vibrating in the floors. He jolts, eyes flashing to Brandon to see him staring back. “Woah,” Brandon says, and a grin tugs at his mouth. “Awesome.”

“We’re totally gonna die tonight,” Adam says, and he can’t help but match Brandon’s grin with one of his own. Maybe he’s not attracted to danger, but Brandon definitely is, and that’s a little bit infectious.

They drink and eat beef jerky while the storm rages on overhead.

“Are you scared?” Brandon asks, when they’ve both gotten through a beer and a half.

“I’m not a pussy, Rusty.”

“I saw you jump, don’t pretend,” Brandon says, but then his sharp grin softens. “I mean, y’know, about moving away and going to school. A lot’s changing, huh?”

_Oh_. “Yeah, I guess.” Adam takes a long, hard swig of beer. He doesn’t look at Brandon. “I guess I’m a little nervous. It’s gonna be weird.” _Especially without you_, he wants to say, but that’s leaving too many cards out on the table. “At least we’re finally getting out of town, though.”

Brandon barks out a laugh. “Good point.” He reaches over, bumps the bottom of his beer bottle against Adam’s knee. Adam glances over, and he’s smiling, soft and almost comforting. “Fuck this place forever.”

“_Fuck _it.”

Another crack of thunder crashes through them both. Adam does his best not to jump, doesn’t really succeed. 

“I’m gonna miss you, though.” Adam’s heart leaps up into his throat, shoulders jolting like he just got freaked by thunder again. He almost can’t bring himself to do it, but he turns to see Brandon watching him, earnest and honest. “I mean it,” Brandon says, and he shuffles forward a little. “It’s gonna be weird, not having you around. We’ve been attached at the hip for, what, fifteen years?”

“About that, yeah.” Adam knows his voice is too quiet, too weak, but this hurts too much to talk about.

“You were like, a baby when we met,” Brandon says with a smile. “It’s just gonna be strange.”

“Yeah,” Adam says, barely more than a whisper.

A long, awkward silence blankets them both. Adam’s chest hurts.

“Fuck it,” Brandon says, and he crawls over on his knees, grabs Adam’s face with boths hands, and—

And kisses him.

It’s soft and tentative, Brandon’s mouth barely moving against his, but also _familiar_. Adam freezes, heart racing, head swimming, and he feels it when Brandon’s about to pull back. Fuck, _no_, he can’t fuck this up.

He curls his hand around the nape of Brandon’s neck and slowly, softly, kisses back.

It’s like his entire body has been struck by lightning. Every movement of Brandon’s lips, every stroke of his thumb over Adam’s cheek—it lights him up, making him dizzy from all the sensation. This is his second ever kiss, and part of him is worried about making a fool of himself, but the rest of him just wants to keep kissing Brandon forever. It’s so _easy_, so _real_. It’s everything Adam’s ever wanted.

It feels like a lifetime later when Brandon pulls away, even though it’s probably only a minute. Brandon’s eyes are wild and bright, his mouth set in determination. “I couldn’t just let you leave,” he says, voice raw. “Not without trying. Not without seeing.”

Adam swallows, his response caught in his throat. He nods.

“It’s not illegal anymore,” Brandon says, a surety in his voice Adam’s almost jealous of. “Not in the state you’re going to, anyway. I can come visit, we can call each other all the time, we can make this work.” His hands drift, fingers winding together behind Adam’s neck. “I wanna make this work.”

“Me …” Adam swallows again. “Me too.”

Brandon’s face breaks out in a smile, and Adam thinks maybe this time he’s allowed to find it beautiful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tumblr](http://soft-eldritch.tumblr.com/) // [twitter](http://twitter.com/softeldritch)


	6. connor/kyle, friends to lovers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> suggested by anon on [tumblr](https://soft-eldritch.tumblr.com/post/186071964893/i-dont-have-enough-stamina-to-actually-write-it), vague nsfw

It starts off as, “I’m bored, can I come over and hang out with your dog?”

Kyle doesn’t call people a lot, and he didn’t even open with hello, so Connor’s understandably a little stuck by the question. A few seconds pass of listening to Kyle’s breathing on the other end of the phone, oddly soothing. Then Connor glances down at Tinley, stretched across the rug and watching the television screen, and shrugs. “Sure,” he says, because he’s a bit bored himself, and hanging out with Kyle won’t make that _worse_.

Fifteen minutes later Kyle shows up. He doesn’t bother knocking, just comes in and calls out, “honey, I’m home!” Two minutes after that, he appears in Connor’s media room with an expensive can of craft beer and kneels on the rug without preamble. “Hey, Tin,” he says softly, almost a coo, setting his unopened beer on the coffee table.

Connor watches, fascinated, as Tinley crawls over to put his head in Kyle’s lap. Then he shrugs, and resumes his game to the background noise of Kyle sweet-talking his dog.

It happens again, after a rough loss against the Leafs. Kyle sidles up to him in the locker room, breaking through the repetition of the three goals he let in–an analysis of what went wrong, of what subtle corrections would have stopped the puck hitting the back of the net. “Tough one,” Kyle says simply, bumping their shoulders together. His skin is wet with sweat, highlighting the curve of wiry muscles in his shoulders. “Is it okay if I come over and see Tinley? Doggy therapy?”

“Yeah,” Connor says.

“Cool.” Kyle bumps their shoulders together again. “See you in an hour?”

Forty minutes later, he’s strolling through the unlocked door of Connor’s house again, this time immediately dragging himself into the media room and collapsing on the other end of the couch. His eyes drag over to land on Connor, lazy-lidded.

“Next time,” he says, a tired smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Can’t win ‘em all.”

Connor grins back. Kyle’s smiles are always slow and sleepy, but infectious. A lot about him is infectious, really; the ease with which he moves his body, draping himself into any position that’s comfortable. Connor relaxes further into his couch, and contemplates responding to Kyle’s platitudes with a quip, but any words melt on his tongue when Kyle’s head tips back and his eyes flutter shut. Instead, he pauses his movie and asks, “want a beer?”

“Sure,” Kyle says. His eyes are still closed, body sprawling and soft. “You know what I like, man.”

He does. They have similar tastes. Connor grabs a couple cans, decorated with gorgeous artwork of colourful wolves. When he returns to the media room, Kyle has somehow sunk even further into the corner of the couch, Tinley’s chin perched on his thigh. His long, slender fingers are threaded in Tinley’s long fur, gently scratching just behind his ears.

A soft, subtle warmth fills up Connor’s ribcage like gently lapping water. He puts Kyle’s beer on the end table next to him and settles onto the other end of the couch carefully; he feels like any sudden movements will shatter the tranquil atmosphere and ruin the perfectly relaxed expression on Kyle’s face.

“Wanna watch a movie?” he asks, after a moment of watching the slow rise and fall of Kyle’s chest. 

“Yeah,” Kyle says idly, and doesn’t open his eyes. “You pick. I’m easy.”

_How easy?_ Connor nearly chirps. He’s not quite sure what stops him.

It becomes a bit of a pattern, after that. Well, pattern may be the wrong word; there’s no expected trigger, no time or day or event Connor starts associating with it. Sometimes, Kyle just asks to come over and hang out with Tinley, and carves out a space for himself in Connor’s home with the same ease with which he does everything else.

Connor likes it. Kyle’s easy to hang out with–he’s quiet and relaxed, and never gets high on Connor’s back porch without permission. A couple times they hang out in the backyard, drinking beers around a metal firepit before the Winnipeg winters get too cold.

He’s not home often enough to notice, but when Kyle’s stretched out along the couch, Connor somehow realizes just how big his house is. That’s not necessarily a bad thing, though when Kyle inevitably leaves for the night it does feel a little more empty.

“I hate the cold,” Kyle says one day. Connor turns around to see him staring at the flurry of snow falling out the window of the kitchen, brows furrowed into a tiny little frown. “I like Winnipeg, but it’s too fuckin’ cold here.”

Connor shrugs, turning back to his sink with a grin. “It’s not that bad,” he says, scraping at a frying pan with a wire sponge. “I think the snow is kinda pretty.”

“Like a winter wonderland,” Kyle says agreeably. “Until the roads get all muddy and it sprays everywhere.”

“So it’s just pretty at night before people start driving.” Connor glances to the clock above the stove. Just after midnight. A restless energy pulses down the lengths of his legs. So he tugs off his rubber gloves, draping them over the edge of the sink, and turns to Kyle to say, “wanna go for a walk?”

Kyle gives him a dead stare. “It’s like 20 below out, and I didn’t bring a parka.”

Connor shrugs. “You can just borrow one of mine, it’s fine.” A grin curls across his face, a little too giddy for a grown man with soapy water splashed on his rolled up sleeves. “C’mon, Tinley loves the snow. It’ll be fun, I promise.”

They end up going on the walk, even though Kyle scowls from the moment he begrudgingly agrees until they step outside and into the falling snow. There isn’t _that _much of a size difference between them but Kyle’s drowning in his parka anyway, comically adorable. Connor grins at him and teases him about it, eyes caught on the dusting of snowflakes on his strawberry blond curls.

It’s a cold night, but a gorgeous one. Tinley dances in the snow and bites at it when Connor kicks powdery chunks at him. 

A few minutes later they’re walking down an empty, quiet street, an untouched layer of snow glimmering under the streetlights, big fluffy snowflakes drifting through the air. Connor feels the weight of the world in moments like this, staring up at an endless black sky like he’s the only person in the world.

“I guess you might have a point,” Kyle says. When Connor glances down at him, he’s staring up at the sky too, eyes wide and face open.

Connor bumps his elbow against Kyle’s, and the lonely world feels one person fuller.

More and more, Kyle finds his way into Connor’s home. A couple times a month becomes once a week becomes most days, and Connor starts to notice things that never quite caught his attention before. Little things, like how the corners of Kyle’s eyes crinkle when he laughs, or the fact that he can fall asleep just about anywhere, or how he sings in pleasant sotto voce when he’s concentrating.

Other things, too. When Kyle’s stretched out across Connor’s carpet on his stomach, elbows propping him up as he plays with Tinley, Connor notices quite a few things. The shape of Kyle’s legs, the curve of his ass, the slope of his back. Heat flares up in the pit of his stomach as he traces the angles and arcs of Kyle’s body with his eyes, imagines tracing them with his fingertips; dragging bare hands up under Kyle’s t-shirt, tucking them beneath the waistband of his sweats.

He jerks off in the shower later thinking of Kyle’s lazy smile and clever hands, only feeling bad about it when Kyle grins at him across the ice next practice.

Afterwards, Kyle comes up and asks, “dinner at your place?”

Connor raises his eyebrows. “You’re just using me for my kitchen.”

“It’s a nice kitchen,” Kyle says, and some instinctive part of Connor preens, because he’s proud of his remodelling decisions. “Y’know what, though, I’ll actually help cook this time.” He grins, big and boyish. “Promise.”

“I don’t believe you,” Connor says with a sigh, mostly exaggerating. “But I guess I’ll allow it.”

Almost surprisingly, Kyle does end up helping. He takes directions well, following Connor’s directions to a tee. They work well together in the kitchen; Connor steady and solid, Kyle slipping around him, always in motion. It’d be kind of poetic if it wasn’t so amusing.

They eat dinner in the media room, watching another movie and drinking a new craft beer Connor bought when Kyle mentioned liking it. It’s a pleasant evening, warm and hazy, a half-step away from being a date. Connor realizes somewhat belatedly that he went past attraction and took a nosedive into affection a long time ago, and that doesn’t really startle him so much as settle deep and pleasant in his gut.

“Thanks for letting me come over,” Kyle says in a moment of silence. Connor glances at him, then keeps looking; Kyle’s eyes are hooded, meeting Connor’s with a soft intensity. “This has been really nice, getting to hang out like this.”

They’re sitting a little closer than they normally would, and Kyle’s lips are parted. It feels like an invitation. A blatant magnetic pull, drawing them both into something inevitable.

Connor curls a hand around the side of Kyle’s neck and slowly, tentatively, leans in to kiss him.

It’s close-mouthed and chaste, just a simple press of lips together. Warmth spreads over Connor’s skin as Kyle immediately leans into it, hand splaying wide and warm on Connor’s chest. When they pull back it’s only enough to breathe, eyes closed as their foreheads rest together, Connor’s heartbeat thudding at the back of his throat. The moment lingers between them, fragile and soft.

“_Finally_,” Kyle mutters, before he’s fisting a hand in the front of Connor’s shirt and pulling him in again for a kiss that isn’t chaste at all.

A stumbling trip to the bedroom and two sweaty, messy orgasms later, Connor rolls off where he’d been braced over Kyle’s body and collapses on his back. Their arms are still pressed together, Kyle’s skin warm and slick with sweat against his.

“I was waiting forever for you to do that,” Kyle says breathlessly.

Connor tips his head to the side to look at the strong profile of Kyle’s nose. There’s something almost elegant about the shape of his face, offset by the overall boyishness. “You could have said something,” he points out. The idea that he could’ve been looming over Kyle a lot sooner, licking into his mouth and shoving a hand down his pants, is more than a little frustrating. “Or done something. You’re not the heroine of a bad romance novel, you can take the initiative.”

“Nah,” Kyle laughs. He rolls over, propping himself up on Connor’s chest, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. “I wanted you to do it.”

Well, Connor can’t exactly pretend that doesn’t make sense. He doesn’t bother saying anything in response; Kyle’s head drops onto his shoulder, and Connor smooths a hand down the damp skin of his spine to gently grip his ass. Then he just soaks in the moment, warmth suffusing every pore of his body from the tips of his toes to the roots of his hair. 

The funny thing is, this feels like it could be a forever sort of thing. 

“I think you should move in with me,” Connor says, because the house never seems as empty when Kyle’s there, and he’d like to feel that every day. Their pieces already fit together so well. “Your apartment is pretty terrible, anyway.”

Kyle lifts his head up and grins. “Oh, I’m never leaving. You’re not getting rid of me, Helle, I’m persistent.”

Connor nods. “Like a fungus, yeah.” He squeezes the swell of Kyle’s ass, and Kyle’s grin curls even wider and wickeder. “Hey. Move in with me.” It isn’t quite a question, and isn’t quite a demand, but something in-between. He knows his own sense of humour, so he wants to be perfectly clear—with this, he isn’t joking.

“Yeah,” Kyle says, soft and hazy, a smile on his face. “I will.”

(Two weeks later, once they’ve moved all of Kyle’s stuff in and christened every surface in the house, they stretch out along the couch with Kyle’s back against Connor’s chest and Tinley asleep on their tangled legs. A movie’s playing that Connor is barely paying attention to, because his feet are starting to go numb and Kyle’s bony body is digging into his flesh wherever they’re touching.

It is, somehow, the most comfortable he’s ever been.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tumblr](http://soft-eldritch.tumblr.com/) // [twitter](http://twitter.com/softeldritch)


	7. adam/brandon, long distance relationship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt:  
7\. I know your weakness. It’s kisses. You are doomed. (Don’t worry. We’re all doomed eventually.)  
21\. To thine own self be wicked sexy. (And then send pics.)
> 
> prompted by paige on [tumblr](https://soft-eldritch.tumblr.com/post/186317102973/7-21-for-adambrandon), vague nsfw

Sometimes Adam really can’t tell how well he’s handling this whole long-distance-relationship thing. Like, professionally, he’s doing _great_. He’s playing well, scoring goals, kicking ass. And he’s got a thriving social life—he goes out with the guys, invites them over for dinner, games with them over his excellent internet connection.

But sometimes he can’t bring himself to go into the kitchen and make dinner without Brandon’s voice in his ear, and there’s a jersey he’s looking for in practice that isn’t there anymore, and once in a while he’ll curl up in bed feeling small without anyone there to hold him. It’s stupid and sappy and something he’s still having trouble vocalizing to Brandon, even when he calls him up in the middle of the night because it feels like a bunch of pieces of him are crumbling away.

Also, it fucking _sucks _having to cheer for the Pens.

Like, right now, he’s sitting on the couch actually _happy _that the Pens won their game, and isn’t that just bullshit? 

It’s bullshit enough that Adam zips on a loose jacket and heads out for a run, even though it’s past sunset and chilly even for a Winnipeg autumn. He jogs out his frustration, listening to the playlist Brandon only kind of ironically made for him, and comes back sweaty and filled with a lot of aggression and frustration he has nothing to do with. _Before_, this would be the part where Brandon would grin up at him all smug and knowing, and he’d take Adam apart.

Adam collapses sideways on an armchair and pulls out his phone just to glare at it, like it’s a proxy for Brandon or something. Stupid Brandon, going and doing the right thing for his career and making fucking bank. 

Adam’s aware he’s not being entirely fair.

Instead of letting himself get any more mad, Adam pulls up Brandon’s contact and fires off a few texts. _congrats on the w_, and then, because he loves Brandon but he also loves the Jets, _shame your win streaks gonna end when you come play us next week :/_

He waits a little while, staring at the little grey _Delivered _below the text, waiting for the read receipt to show up. Nothing happens, which makes sense. The Pens just won a game at home, they’re probably all out celebrating, Brandon included. He’s probably too busy to be checking his phone. Adam tells himself that it doesn’t bother him.

A few minutes pass. Adam glares at his phone. Okay, so maybe it bothers him just a little.

He can go to bed irrationally angry, or he can try and make something productive out of this. The bed seems a little too big right now (which, Adam is 6’5, _nothing _is too big for him) so instead he rolls onto his feet and heads off in search of something to do.

He ends up sitting on the floor in front of the open closet, wondering whether it’s too trashy to send Brandon a snap of their handcuffs with some stupid winky faces. Then he realizes there’s no such thing as too trashy, and takes a really good picture of the cuffs dangling from one wrist and a caption saying _not as fun without you_, including a couple choice emojis to really get the message across.

Ten minutes later, Brandon still hasn’t opened the snap. “Rude,” Adam mutters to himself, checking his phone for the hundredth time and seeing no change.

Desperate times call for desperate measures, and luckily, Adam is_ so good _at being desperate. He tugs up his shirt, taking a picture of his abs, captioning it _pay attention to me jackass_. For a second he considers not sending it and actually maintaining what little dignity he has left, but … well. Adam has never pretended to be anything but shameless.

Except then _that _doesn’t get any response either. Apparently Brandon is really busy with all his new boys. Adam doesn’t want to feel as bitter over that as he is—Brandon’s a grown-ass man, he’s allowed to have new friends, and Adam’s not gonna be the jealous boyfriend pining away at home for him.

No, he’s going to be the bratty boyfriend that sends half-nudes while his boyfriend’s out with the guys.

He positions himself all stretched out on the couch, shoving a hand down his sweats and taking a picture. He captions the snap _hurry up or ill start without you_ and sends it off before his better judgement can tell him not to.

Seven minutes later—not that Adam was counting—his phone lights up with Brandon’s number.

Adam answers on the first ring, and the first thing out of Brandon’s mouth is a slightly strangled, “_Adam_.”

Adam grins. “Sup.”

“Adam.” Brandon’s voice is a little harsher this time, a little more authoritative, and Adam’s toes curl. He’s also speaking a bit hushed, and there’s a weird background hum; it makes Adam wonder where he is. If he’s in a bar bathroom or something. 

That’s … really fuckin’ hot.

“Brandon,” Adam says around a wicked grin, just to be a shit. He loops a finger around the drawstring of his sweats. “I’m bored.”

Brandon heaves out a sigh that’s really kinda more of a growl. “I’m out with the guys, Lows,” he says slowly, a teasing edge to his voice. And something a little sharper. “I can’t just drop everything when you want attention.” 

Adam brushes his hand over his crotch and really plays up the way his breath hitches. “But I need you,” he whines, purposefully high and soft and almost feminine, internally laughing at himself. He sounds like a pornstar and it’s _awesome_. “Are you really gonna leave me hanging?”

“I’m considering it,” Brandon says lowly, but there’s laughter hidden in his voice. “Jesus, babe, you’re killing me.”

“That’s my line,” Adam croons. “Seriously, though, are we doing this or not? Because I’ll jerk off to a highlight reel if I have to, but I really don’t _want _to, y’know?”

“You’re ridiculous,” Brandon says. He doesn’t hang up. 

They get each other off like that—more accurately, Brandon whispers absolute filth and groans into the phone, and Adam goes a little out of his mind with how good it makes him feel. Then, when he’s settled and solid and heavy, and he’s teased Brandon about sneaking off from the guys to have phone sex in a bathroom stall, Brandon drily tells him to go to bed and hangs up.

So, the thing is, Adam feels really good up until he actually gets into bed. That’s when his body realizes Brandon’s not coming, and all the heady endorphins he was just riding on drain out and leave him feeling hollow.

He curls up on his side, glaring at the wall. It’s easier, channelling this godawful feeling into frustration instead of something scarier.

It’s just. Been a while.

Adam kind of hates it, because it’s an indistinct hurt hidden behind his ribs, and it doesn’t go away no matter how much he tells himself this is just how things are, now. And no amount of convincing himself that he’s lucky—that Brandon chose to try and make the distance thing work—seems to fix it either.

He’s grabbing his phone and firing off _i wish i could kiss you_ before his common sense can make him stop. Then he stares at it, hoping that Brandon’s too busy to check his phone, hoping he’s back asleep in his new apartment, because—because there’s something prickling at the backs of Adam’s eyes, and he’s not sure how much he could handle actually hearing Brandon’s voice right now.

A few minutes later, Adam’s phone buzzes. Brandon’s calling.

He accepts the call, holding the phone up to his ear, breath caught in his chest. 

“Hey,” Brandon says, voice all soft and magnetic, burrowing into Adam’s chest and taking hold. “You okay?”

“I’m—no,” Adam says, truthfully. He wraps his arm tight around his stomach. “I’m, um.” A lump lodges itself in the back of his throat. “Lonely.” It’s harder to admit, when he doesn’t have Brandon’s big brown eyes to drown in.

“Oh, babe,” Brandon murmurs. “Me too.”

That—that helps to hear. To know that Adam’s not just pathetic on his own. “It’s just not the same,” he says quietly, the words tumbling out. “Like, yeah, it’s good hearing your voice, but I can’t touch you. I just wanna—“ He cuts himself off, breathing out harshly. “I miss you,” he finishes, kinda lamely.

“One week,” Brandon promises. 

Adam nods, even though Brandon can’t see him. “Yeah.” His hand curls tighter around his phone. “Hey, can we do something totally cheesy?”

Brandon huffs out a laugh, soothing the hollow ringing in Adam’s chest. “Probably. What’d you have in mind?”

“Fall asleep with me?”

“Of course,” Brandon says, his voice low and a little gravelly. “Love you, babe.”

Adam’s eyes drift shut. “I love you.”

(Six days later, after kicking the Penguins collective ass, Adam all but barges into the visitor’s locker room. They won’t actually let him inside, but he’s waiting when Brandon steps out with a couple guys, calls out, “hey, B!” loud enough that the guys already going down the hallway turn back and stare at him. It catches Brandon’s attention, though, which is all that matters.

His eyes go wide when they land on Adam, and suddenly they’re rushing at each other. Brandon yanks him down by his tie and finally, _finally _kisses him.

Adam grins into it, then Brandon’s teeth dig into his lower lip and he _melts_. He’s pretty sure one of the Pens is saying something about fraternizing with the enemy, but Adam doesn’t care, because Brandon’s tucking warm hands up under the jacket of his suit, splaying them wide across his lower back.

When they pull back, Adam feels dizzy. “Hey,” he says, grinning like an idiot down at Brandon. Brandon’s grinning just as stupidly back.

“Hey,” Brandon repeats.

“Told you we’d kick your—”

Brandon kisses him to shut him up. Adam can’t even bring himself to be upset about the fact that it works.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tumblr](http://soft-eldritch.tumblr.com/) // [twitter](http://twitter.com/softeldritch)


	8. nikolaj/patrik, popstar/bodyguard au

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: celebrity au + meet messy + "are you sure this is legal?"
> 
> prompted by kendall on [tumblr](https://soft-eldritch.tumblr.com/post/186781632258/ooh-baby-okay-nikpate-celebrityau-meet-messy), rated E

Nikolaj wakes up groggy, clammy and sore. He doesn’t open his eyes yet, just burrows his face into an unfamiliar-smelling pillow and makes a face at the sticky feeling of sweat cooled on his skin. There’s still too much sleep fog clouding his brain to remember _exactly_ what happened last night—those shots probably aren’t helping either—but he’s not at home and his ass is sore and he’s pretty sure there’s an arm slung across his waist, so.

He turns his head the other way, trying to catch a glimpse of whoever took him home last night. He’s pretty sure he wasn’t too drunk, so he’s not surprised that the guy isn’t too unattractive. His face is weird and doesn’t all fit together, but it makes him hot in a unique sort of way. Maybe that’s just the afterglow talking, though, because Nikolaj’s starting to remember that the guy has a nice dick.

Other memories start slowly creeping back through the fog in his mind. The guy’s name is Patrik, and he’d been tall and strong and had these really pretty blue eyes, so Nikolaj danced with him and kissed the cute mole under his ear and let Patrik grab his ass.

Nikolaj doesn’t remember the flash of any paparazzi cameras, thank god. He doesn’t fucking need to deal with that.

The guy—Patrik—is still sound asleep. Nikolaj carefully nudges his arm off and rolls out of bed, wincing when he’s actually standing and his legs go all wobbly, an indistinct pain near the base of his spine. Jesus, _really_ nice dick. Nikolaj very distinctly remembers going twice, all of a sudden.

He’s kinda tempted to stick around until he guy wakes up, make it three times and stumble into the studio an hour late, but Blake’s already gonna be pissed enough that he went home with someone anyway. Nikolaj’s supposed to be taking better care of his reputation, after the whole scandal with that model. If he shows up late for recording walking like he’s just been fucked, Blake’ll kill him.

So he straightens up, taking one last look at Patrik’s weirdly peaceful face before heading off in search of his clothes. He ends up finding them scattered on the way from the front door to the bedroom—he definitely remembers _that_, now, being pressed up against every available surface and kissed until he couldn’t breathe—and finds himself a bathroom to get dressed and check out the damage.

“Jesus,” he mutters to himself, once he’s finally taken a look in the mirror. Apparently this Patrik guy likes to leave evidence. Nikolaj’s covered in bruises and bite marks, clustered around his neck and collar, a few fading marks scattered down his chest. He prods at one and the sting makes him flinch.

Blake’s definitely gonna kill him.

Might as well face the music. Nikolaj gets dressed and heads out of Patrik’s (admittedly very nice) apartment building, blinking at the harsh sunlight as soon as he steps outside. It doesn’t take long for him to catch a cab—Blake’s gonna get mad at him for that, too, not calling a driver to come pick him up—and then he’s tucking himself in and keeping his head low as he gives the cab driver the address.

When he walks into the recording studio fifteen minutes later, Blake's look is absolutely murderous. 

* * *

“I may have found you a new bodyguard,” is the first thing Blake says when Nikolaj stumbles out of bed and answers his call.

Nikolaj blinks, and stares down at the hot actor still half asleep in his bed. The guy’s doing something on his phone, and he’s got really nice hands. Hands Nikolaj wants on him again. As usual, he’s already regretting answering the phone. “Can we have this talk later?”

“No,” Blake says decisively, “because you’re coming to meet him in half an hour.”

“Blake,” Nikolaj whines.

“Nikolaj,” Blake answers, completely monotone. “This is about your security. I’m not putting your safety in this guy’s hands unless I know he’s a good fit.” 

“C’mon.”

“_No_.”

“I didn’t actually want a new guy,” Nikolaj says, fiddling with the hem of his shirt, making a face at the actor when he gives him an amused, questioning look. “You decided to fire my old guy.”

“I didn’t fire him, I got him a different contract,” Blake says. “And yes, I got rid of him, because you _slept with him_.” He’s got his perfect Chastising Manager voice on, and Nikolaj tries not to shrink under the pressure. Blake’s too good at his job. “It’s a conflict of interest, not to mention completely unprofessional, _and_ unethical.”

Nikolaj already got this lecture, three weeks ago when those pictures leaked of him making out with his old bodyguard at a club. He doesn’t need to hear it again. “Fine,” he says, scowling at the actor whose name he barely remembers, “I’ll be there, just give me an hour.”

“Thirty minutes,” Blake says, and then he hangs up.

Well, so much for morning sex.

By the time Nikolaj’s gotten the actor out of his house (he thinks his name is John, or Jack, or something else generic), he’s already five minutes late to meeting with Blake and whoever this new security guy is. He puts his phone on silent so Blake can’t harass him, practically sprints to one of his many cars, and drives to Blake’s office probably faster than he should. He ends up getting there fifteen minutes late, which is honestly better than his usual record.

Mark gives Nikolaj an eyebrows-raised _look_ when he stumbles through the glass doors. “He’s not gonna be happy,” Mark warns, holding a phone to his ear, other hand absently typing something on his computer. The eyebrows go up even further. “You might want to zip that hoodie up a little more, by the way.”

The tips of Nikolaj’s ears go hot. Right. Generic Actor Guy got a bit toothy last night. Nikolaj tugs on the zipper of his sweater as far as it’ll go, hoping it covers the worst of the marks. Judging by the way Mark’s mouth presses thin and he shrugs, he’s out of luck.

Well, it’s not like Nikolaj hasn’t gone to more important meetings looking worse.

He heads up to the second floor, taking the stairs two at a time, rushing to Blake’s office and throwing open the door with an excuse ready on his tongue. Then everything in his brain dissolves, because—because there’s a very familiar pair of blue eyes staring back at him.

Nikolaj almost bursts out laughing. Oh, shit.

“Nikolaj,” Blake says evenly, barely concealing his annoyance. “Meet Patrik Laine.”

_I’ve met him_, Nikolaj thinks, clenching his jaw to keep from laughing, glancing between the hidden smirk on Patrik’s face and the disapproving glare on Blake’s. _We’re very well acquainted_.

He swallows it down. “Hey,” he says, striding forward to offer a handshake. Patrik’s hands are as big and warm as he remembers. “I’m Nikolaj, but I guess you already know that.” He flashes a wide smile, the one everyone on the internet always goes crazy over. Patrik just raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. Nikolaj immediately wants to kiss him.

Fuck, this is gonna be the best kind of disaster.

* * *

After a very short interview—Blake’s done all the vetting already, and Nikolaj really didn’t need a lot of time to decide that he does, in fact, want Patrik around him pretty much constantly—Patrik gives Nikolaj another handshake and a promise to, “keep you out of trouble”. He still has that barely-there smirk on his face the entire time.

Nikolaj grins. “Not all kinds of trouble. Gotta let me have my fun.”

Patrik’s expression doesn’t change, but his hand tightens around Nikolaj’s. “I think it’ll be better if I keep a good handle on you.”

Nikolaj’s stomach flips. 

“Patrik,” Blake says, his voice cutting through the tension. Patrik drops Nikolaj’s hand. “Give Nikolaj and I a second?”

Patrik nods. “Yes, Sir.”

Nikolaj watches him close the door behind him, and turns around to see Blake already giving him a chastising look. Yeah, that makes sense. Nikolaj’s never been good at being subtle about his feelings.

“I know that look,” Blake says slowly. “I know you. Don’t sleep with him.”

“Cross my heart,” Nikolaj says, as earnestly as he can without laughing. “I’ll be good.”

Fifteen minutes later Patrik has him pressed up against the wall just inside his house, hands spanning Nikolaj’s waist as he kisses a trail over his jaw and down the slope of his neck. Each kiss is soft, barely a brush of lips against skin, and Nikolaj giggles and shivers and tightens his grip on Patrik’s coat. His laugh dissolves into a moan when Patrik suddenly bites down, heat sparking up his spine.

“I—” Nikolaj tips his head to the side, giving Patrik room to suck and bite a mark over the ones Generic Actor Guy left. “I’m really not, uh, supposed to be—” His breath catches, as Patrik shoves a leg between his thighs. “Doing this. Y’know. With you.”

Patrik stills. “If you want to stop—”

“No fucking way,” Nikolaj spits. He grabs Patrik by the hair, hauls him back so they’re eye-to-eye. Then he grins, already flushed and thrumming with want. “I don’t have to use my voice for the next few days, so I’m gonna suck your dick. You have a problem with that?”

Patrik’s eyes widen, a crooked smirk playing at the edges of his mouth as he steps back to give Nikolaj room. “Go ahead.”

Nikolaj drops to his knees.

* * *

Nikolaj’s lost count of how many shots he’s had, how many people he’s grinded up against and how many have grinded up against him. He’s exhausted and exhilarated all at once, the music pounding at the base of his spine and vibrating through his entire body, vision blurring at the edges. His shirt’s wet with sweat and someone’s spilled drink, clinging to his overly hot skin. 

Patrik finds him on the dance floor, cups a hand around his elbow and leans in. His mouth is on Nikolaj’s ear when he squeezes his elbow and says, “slow down a little bit.”

But Nikolaj’s never really understood the meaning of slowing down, and Patrik’s voice in his ear makes him shudder as arousal settles warm and heavy at the base of his spine. He turns, plastering himself against Patrik’s body, winding both arms around his neck and hanging on. Like this Patrik seems even taller, even bigger, and his hands are wide and warm against the small of Nikolaj’s back.

“Dance with me,” Nikolaj laughs, only slurring the words a little. “You can dance, right?”

Patrik raises his eyebrows, and digs his thumbs into Nikolaj’s waist. “We shouldn’t,” he says, holding Nikolaj back from grinding their hips together. “Not here, at least.”

Nikolaj pouts. “You’re no fun.”

Smirking, Patrik leans down so his mouth is pressed to Nikolaj’s temple, thumbs massaging circles into his hipbones. “I’m very fun,” Patrik murmurs, the words humming against Nikolaj’s skin, making him shiver. “Let’s get out of here?”

_Ooh_. “Fuck yes.”

Patrik ushers him out of the club with a hand on the small of his back, the other ready to fend off anyone who might try to approach. He’s a big presence blocking Nikolaj from flashing cameras until they stumble into Nikolaj’s limo together. Nikolaj feels all tangled up until Patrik gets him straightened out and sitting up straight; a second later, there’s a cold water bottle from the fridge in his lap.

“Drink,” Patrik says, leaning back in his seat next to Nikolaj. His legs are spread a little, and Nikolaj’s eyes get caught on the thickness of his thighs, the vee of his crotch. 

He swallows down about half the water in one go, washing away the dry feeling at the back of his throat and the lingering sweetness of his last cocktail. Then he climbs half into Patrik’s lap and slots their mouths together for a sloppy kiss.

Patrick laughs, and then groans when Nikolaj reaches between them and palms at his dick. His hands grip tight around Nikolaj’s thighs, thumbs pressing in too hard. “You’re so desperate,” he croons, in the exact tone of condescension that goes straight to Nikolaj’s cock.

Nikolaj mouths messily at his jaw. “If you don’t want it . . .” He doesn’t bother finishing the sentence, just straddles Patrik’s thigh more thoroughly and reaches between them to fumble at Patrik’s pants. His fingers won’t quite cooperate, and a whine catches in the back of his throat. “Help me out, Patty.”

The low hum of Patrik’s chuckle vibrates through his entire body. “Sloppy,” Patrik murmurs, but he helps Nikolaj pop the button on his pants and undo the fly.

They get off like that—Nikolaj rocking against Patrik’s thigh, hand around Patrik’s dick. Nikolaj pants and whines into the sweat-damp skin of Patrik neck while Patrik gets both hands around his hips and guides his movements. It’s just fucking _hot_, even with his leg starting to cramp and the sounds of traffic humming around them.

Nikolaj comes in his pants like he’s a teenager again. A minute later he brings Patrik over the edge with him, and then there’s nothing but an ache starting in his thigh and sweat cooling on his skin.

Patrik presses a messy kiss to Nikolaj’s hair then collapses back against the seat, eyes half-lidded as he stares at Nikolaj. The intensity of his gaze makes something go warm and squirmy in Nikolaj’s stomach. Patrik always like to just _look_. 

Well, if he’s gonna stare, might as well give him something fun to watch. Nikolaj grins, and lifts his hand to his mouth to lick the come off his fingers, shivering when Patrik’s grip goes tight around his hips.

“You—” Patrik breaks off with something that sounds like a curse. His eyes are big, fixated on Nikolaj’s hand, and it makes him look young and a little out of his depth. “You’re way too much.”

Nikolaj just smiles, and drags his thumb across his lower lip. “Didn’t Blake tell you I’m a handful?”

“I don’t think he meant _this_.”

* * *

Nikolaj’s still buzzing with the high of being on stage when Patrik finds him. He always feels like this after a show—wobbly and exhausted, shaking with excess energy, head all clouded over. A little like he’s just had really good sex. 

He’s hunched over his dressing room table, scrubbing at his face with makeup wipes, when he sees the door open in the mirror and Patrik slips inside. Nikolaj doesn’t bother turning around, because this stupid sparkly eyeshadow is being stubborn.

“Good show tonight,” Patrik says, loping closer. He grins, eyes deliberately dragging up Nikolaj’s body. “Nice look.”

The back of Nikolaj’s neck flushes, and he smirks at Patrik through the mirror. The pants he was wearing were obscenely tight and did great things for his legs and ass, but they were ridiculously hot and the first thing Nikolaj peeled himself out of when he finally got back to his dressing room. So he knows how he looks now, bare legs and messy hair and smudged makeup.

“You’re not talking, right?”

Nikolaj nods. “Vocal rest,” he murmurs, finally turning around. Patrik’s already seen him looking sloppier—Patrik’s _made_ him look sloppier—so Nikolaj gives up on removing the sparkly makeup for now. He grabs his thermos of tea and takes a long swig, leaning back against the vanity table, grinning when Patrik moves into his space and braces his hands on the table near Nikolaj’s hips. 

“Finally,” Patrik says, before leaning in and giving him an open-mouthed, lingering kiss. He tugs Nikolaj’s lower lip between his teeth when he pulls back and Nikolaj carefully doesn’t let himself make the noise building in the back of his throat. “You talk too much, this is nice.”

Nikolaj narrows his eyes at Patrik’s grin. Smug asshole.

Patrik’s fingers trail up his bare thighs, and Nikolaj bites his lip. “Cute,” Patrik says, hands covering Nikolaj’s hips completely, sliding up his waist beneath his shirt. “Remember, you’re not allowed to make any noise.” Then he ducks down to kiss the side of Nikolaj’s neck, soft enough that Nikolaj almost giggles from the feeling. He kisses down to Nikolaj’s collarbones, kissing the dip between them.

Then his hand drags down from Nikolaj’s stomach to his dick, and Nikolaj can’t completely swallow down his high-pitched moan of surprise.

“Shh.” Patrik palms him through his underwear, slow and not nearly enough pressure. “You’re supposed to be quiet, right?”

_Oh, motherfucker_. Nikolaj scowls at nothing, breathing out harshly when Patrik nibbles along the tendon in his shoulder, hips twitching against Patrik’s hand. Frustration builds up like an itch under his skin at the barely-there touch, the way Patrik’s hand moves away whenever he tries to chase the pressure.

“Wait—“ His voice breaks off into a moan when Patrik finally, _finally_, tugs down his underwear and gets a hand around his dick. Nikolaj shudders, clinging to the lapels of Patrik’s suit, whining when Patrik suddenly surges up and licks into his mouth. Patrik twists his grip and Nikolaj turns his head away with a gasp, breathing hard as Patrik kisses down his jaw. “Blake—Blake might come looking for me, Patty—“

Patrik’s hand shoots up, clamping over Nikolaj’s mouth. “You’re not supposed to be talking, Niky.”

He should probably put up more of a fight, but Patrik’s hand is perfectly tight around his dick and his mouth is warm on his neck. Nikolaj’s light-headed already—from the high of performing and from Patrik pressed close, trapping him against the vanity with his body. He pants against Patrik’s hand, bucks his hips fast and uncoordinated into Patrik’s grip.

It’s over almost embarrassingly fast. Patrik twists his wrist just right and digs his teeth into Nikolaj’s shoulder, and Nikolaj hisses out a mangled falsetto whine as he comes over Patrik’s hand and his own thighs. Patrik keeps stroking him through it, until the sting of overstimulation makes him whimper and shove at Patrik’s hand.

They stay like that for a while, Patrik with a hand squeezing Nikolaj’s hip, Nikolaj with his fingers curled around Patrik’s lapels, shuddering and gasping down air.

His legs are still too shaky to move properly, so he leans more of his weight against the vanity and curls forward until his face is tucked against Patrik’s chest. The hand Patrik had clamped around his mouth moves, thumb dragging over Nikolaj’s jaw before his hand curls around the back of Nikolaj’s neck and grips tight.

“You should put clothes on,” Patrik says quietly, his voice only a bit rougher. “We have to get on the bus soon.”

Nikolaj’s not supposed to be talking, so he just makes a questioning noise and trails his hand down Patrik’s front. Patrik grabs his wrist before he can touch his dick.

“Later,” Patrik murmurs. He digs his fingers into the knobs of Nikolaj’s spine. “I wanna fuck you, and we don’t have time for that here.”

Heat flushes up the back of his neck. Probably not a good idea, letting Patrik fuck him when he has another show tomorrow night.

Since when has Nikolaj ever had good ideas, though?

* * *

Nikolaj’s supposed to be watching a parade of models slinking up and down a runway, all dolled up in fashion he doesn’t really understand. He got bored of it half an hour ago. For the past ten minutes he’s been wandering through the rest of the party, nursing a glass of champagne, chatting aimlessly with anyone he recognizes. 

It’s kind of stupid, having this fashion show in an old Parisian palace and confining the party to only a few rooms on the ground floor. Nobody’s even allowed to go upstairs; they have red velvet ropes sectioning off all the no-access areas, with security guards standing near the places with more traffic.

Nikolaj laughs at a joke from one of his old flings, eyes absently scanning the room. He spots Patrik near the big arching windows, laughing with a couple other people in plain black suits, a man and a woman. Probably more security personnel. He looks good; hair slicked back, suit perfectly fitted.

Well, that’s a good way to pass the time.

Nikolaj excuses himself from the conversation, slipping through the crowd. Almost like he can feel him approaching, Patrik’s eyes flick in his direction, and the corners of his mouth tug into a crooked smirk. Nikolaj stops up, grinning at Patrik and gesturing for him to follow with a flick of his head before turning around and heading to a hallway off the main ballroom.

The air feels cooler when he steps out of the party, even though it’s still indoors. Nobody’s in this hallway but a few portraits staring out from gilded frames. Nikolaj breathes in deep and takes a last swig of his champagne, emptying out the glass just as he hears the door click open behind him.

Patrik’s hand is warm when he tucks it up under Nikolaj’s suit jacket and spreads it across his lower back. “How’s the party?”

Nikolaj turns slowly. “Boring,” he says with a grin, shivering as Patrik’s fingers trail over his waist. It’s the only place they’re touching. Too many people too close for anything else. “Wanna find somewhere more private?”

Patrik raises his eyebrows. “Lead the way.”

Down the hallway is another huge door, leading to a wide room covered in massive windows, what looks like a garden beyond them. There’s also a set of stairs, cordoned off with more red velvet rope. Nobody around, though, so Nikolaj balances himself with both hands on a polished golden post and swings himself over one leg at a time.

He doesn’t bother checking to see if Patrik will follow him. He just starts climbing the stairs, grinning privately to himself when he hears Patrik’s footsteps.

Patrik’s hand slips into his, fingers tangling together. “Pretty sure this is off-limits, Niky.”

Nikolaj snickers. “Never been a problem before, right?”

They head up a couple flights of stairs, until the music of the show has faded completely. The atmosphere is almost kinda spooky; an old, beautiful palace, completely empty and silent except for them. Nikolaj tightens his hold on Patrik’s hand and sidles a little closer.

Eventually they come to a wide set of double glass doors. Nikolaj gives them an experimental push, satisfied when they swing wide open. They lead out onto a big marble balcony overlooking the gardens. Nikolaj puts his hands on the railing, eyes fluttering shut as he breathes in. It’s a cool night, wind brushing over the shaved sides of his scalp.

Warmth presses up against his back. Hands curl around his waist and Patrik’s face tucks against the nape of his neck, lips brushing against his heated skin. “Are you sure this is legal?” he asks, not sounding all that concerned about it.

“Who knows,” Nikolaj says, arching his back so his ass is in direct contact with Patrik’s dick. “Who cares?”

Patrik groans, and grinds his hips forward. “Good point.”

Nikolaj grins, fingers curling around the stone balcony railing, heat flushing up under his skin. “Patty,” he says, wiggling his hips just to feel Patrik’s fingers dig in tight, “d’you wanna fuck me?”

“I’m supposed to be keeping you _out_ of trouble,” Patrik says, low and ragged, grabbing at Nikolaj’s hips hard enough to leave bruises. 

“You’re really bad at your job.”

“Yeah.” He rolls his hips forward. “You have stuff, right?”

Nikolaj nods, huffing out a breath when Patrik bites at the top of his spine. “Pocket,” he says, already breathless. Maybe it’s the champagne or maybe it’s the boredom but his body’s already vibrating with want, skin itching to be touched. Maybe it’s just Patrik.

There’s nobody in sight but Nikolaj’s stomach still swoops when Patrik shoves his pants down and wraps a hand around his dick. He groans, head falling forward, fingers aching where they’re curled around the railing. He knows—he _knows_ it’s unlikely anyone will see them, there’s nobody on this side of the building and no other buildings in site, but—

Patrik twists his wrist, and Nikolaj moans aloud. “Careful,” Patrik murmurs in his ear. “We don’t know who’s listening.”

Patrik wastes no time shoving his pants down around his knees and opening him up with lube-slick fingers, wringing out high-pitched noises Nikolaj normally doesn’t make outside of a recording booth. Then he bends Nikolaj over properly, elbows braced on the railing, stomach in his throat whenever he looks at the garden patio three stories below.

“Woah,” Nikolaj says, voice shaking. His heart feels like it might pound out of his chest.

Patrik’s hands drag up his waist. “Are you scared of heights?” 

Nikolaj’s legs are trembling. “Only a little,” he admits.

There’s silence behind him, as Patrik massages circles into his lower back. “Don’t look down, then.” Nikolaj’s about to snap out a retort when the head of Patrik’s dick presses against him—and in one smooth thrust he’s all the way in, breaking Nikolaj’s moan into a fractured whine in the back of his throat. Fuck, he’ll never get enough of this.

The pace Patrik sets makes Nikolaj’s entire body shake, eyes squeezed shut as he muffles noises into his sleeve. It’s riding the edge right between pleasurable and painful—the pressure of Patrik’s dick inside him, the bruising grip on his hips.

His orgasm hits like a fucking train once Patrik gets a hand on his dick and gives a few too-tight strokes. Nikolaj’s legs shake so hard it almost hurts and he barely manages to stifle a howl, teeth latched around the sleeve of his sparkly suit jacket. Patrik doesn’t even give him a second to recover, just keeps fucking him until the oversensitivity gets painful and Nikolaj’s whining with every thrust.

Patrik hushes him, one hand petting up under his shirt. “So good, Niky,” he murmurs, accent coming through thicker. “So tight, _fuck_. Wish I could keep you like this all the time, always ready for my cock.”

The words burrow under Nikolaj’s skin and he moans, burying his face in the cradle of his arms. He feels like he’s bursting out of his skin.

Eventually Patrik’s thrusts lose rhythm and a few seconds later he groans, throaty and low, hips stuttering up against Nikolaj’s ass. He stays just like that for a long few moments, while they’re both panting and Nikolaj’s trying to stay standing on legs that feel like they might collapse.

Nikolaj winces when Patrik pulls out, a broken keen slipping through his clenched teeth. He barely notices as Patrik pulls his pants up and tucks his shirt back in, smoothing out any wrinkles. 

“_Fuuuck_, that was . . . fuck.” Nikolaj doesn’t bother elaborating, just rests his sweaty forehead against the cool stone of the railing and tries to breathe. He’s pretty sure if he tries to stand up properly, his knees will buckle and he’ll fall flat on his ass. Luckily Patrik seems to know that, because he’s still got his hands tight around Nikolaj’s hips holding him steady.

“Probably time to go back to the hotel, yeah?”

“Yeah.” There’s lube in his ass and come on his dress shirt; he’s not staying here any longer than he needs to. “You might have to carry me, though.”

Patrik snorts. “You’ll be fine, big baby.” He helps Nikolaj push off the railing anyway, easily lifting him up and spinning him so he can wrap his arms around Patrik’s waist. A little shiver runs up Nikolaj’s spine at how easily Patrik can just . . . move him.

He’s not gonna tell that to Patrik, though—he doesn’t need any more ego boosting—so he just rolls the ache out of his shoulders and leans back against the hands Patrik has spread over his back. “That was so dumb,” he says, staring up at the flush on Patrik’s cheeks, the hint of a smug grin around his lips. “Do you have any idea how many photographers there are here?”

Patrik rolls his eyes. “Yeah, obviously. That’s my job.”

“Yeah, and you aren’t very good at it.”

“I’m not?” Patrik leans in, kissing him sweetly, licking at the seam of Nikolaj’s mouth. He kisses the corner of Nikolaj’s mouth, the hollow of his cheek, up to his temple. “Don’t I take good care of you?”

Nikolaj trembles. He thinks he might be drunk, because the bubbly champagne feeling in his chest almost seems like love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this probably deserves a much longer fic this was SUCH a fun prompt  
thank u for reading!!
> 
> [tumblr](http://soft-eldritch.tumblr.com/) // [twitter](http://twitter.com/softeldritch)


	9. connor/kyle, magical realism pt 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: soulmate au + friends to lovers + “i know that it’s the thought that counts but this doesn’t even look like you thought about it.”
> 
> (i changed the wording of the prompt to make it fit a bit better)
> 
> prompted by cassie on [tumblr](https://soft-eldritch.tumblr.com/post/187222644118/ok-here-we-go-again-since-i-apparently-cant-read), rated T

Kyle has always been just a little bit more in tune with magic than most.

It’s fine, really. Not all that big a deal. So his imaginary friends weren’t all that imaginary, and he spent a bit more time than most kids finding treasures and making little gifts for the faeries in his backyard so they’d play with him. So he cast a few mild curses on people who gave him shit in middle school. So he got high and summoned a succubus in his last year of high school. 

Definitely not a big deal.

Being a little bit magic—the faeries liked to call him _touched_, and practical, practiced witches liked to call him a lucky bastard—means Kyle has always seen things nobody else could see. The faeries, yeah, but other things too. Ghosts, auras, little red strings tied around people’s pinkies.

His parents were tied together with a string, his grandparents too. That’s how he learned what they were, how to look out for them.

It’s a late night with his roommate Nikolaj in their first year of college. Nikolaj’s drunk and Kyle’s high, and they’re talking—about whatever, really, the conversation’s meandering and hopping around like the birds Kyle sometimes watches out the window. Kyle’s on his back, head hanging upside-down off the bed, staring blankly at Nikolaj as he sits cross-legged on the shitty carpet.

“The long distance thing wasn’t gonna work,” Nik says, and Kyle has to take a second remember he’s talking about his ex. “Plus it’s weird, dating a guy still in high school. That’s why I dumped him.”

His hands twist together in his lap. Kyle watches the little red string, pulled taut and trembling, extending out the window and disappearing into the night. He’d bet real money that it’s stretched all the way back to the nowhere prairie city in Canada where Nik went to high school.

He doesn’t tell Nikolaj that, because how the fuck do you explain _I can see soulmates_?

The thing is, Kyle doesn’t have his own little red string. That was a little disappointing, when he was younger, and he asked the few other magically-inclined people he knew if maybe he just couldn’t see it—but they all told him the same thing. 

Now it’s kinda nice, living outside of destiny. 

* * *

In his first year he has an art class with a prof he doesn’t like all that much—the guy drones on and on about realism and the classics and how much of a hate-boner he has for comic books and anime—but, well, first year courses. Kyle mostly pays attention, sometimes doodles Sailor Moon characters in the margins of his notes out of spite. 

There’s an associated studio class too, thank the gods, every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon. That’s where Kyle meets Connor.

The prof tells them to pair off, and Kyle sits back and watches as everyone finds a partner. He doesn’t have any friends in the art stream yet—Nikolaj’s kind of his only friend, and he’s a fucking physics major—so he just waits for someone else to be the last person standing.

Turns out he doesn’t have to. “Hey,” comes a deep voice from his left, and Kyle turns to see a really tall guy with ridiculous ears grinning down at him. “Wanna pair up?”

Kyle shrugs. “Sure.”

The guy collapses in the seat next to him, long legs sprawled out in front of him. He’s got the same easy confidence Kyle does, just . . . louder. The kind of guy that nobody can help giving a second glance to.

“I’m Connor,” he says, holding out his hand. Kyle takes it; his handshake’s firm, his skin warm and a bit dry. His hands are huge, which is like. Definitely something.

“Kyle.” The handshake lingers maybe a second too long, and Kyle notices a couple things about Connor all at once. He’s got these tattoos winding up his arms that look like they’re made of gold, the colouring is so good, and the design seems to shift between nature and abstract on a dime. His eyes look like there’s a little bit of gold in them too, disappearing if Kyle looks too long, and—

Huh. He doesn’t have a red string either.

He’s not the first person Kyle’s met without a string, but it’s rare. Kyle always appreciates it, knowing he’s not the only one not tied to someone else’s destiny.

“You a first year?” Kyle asks, because Connor looks both a little older than him and not older at all.

Connor shrugs, offering an easy smile. “Nah, I’ve been around for a while. Just thought it was time to finally take this class.”

Kyle nods. He gets that. He’s not planning on taking those math requirements until the last possible minute.

The prof tells everyone they’re gonna do sketches of their partner—thirty seconds, then a minute, then five minutes. Practice getting shapes down, sketching out the most important parts of a drawing before worrying about tiny details. Kyle remembers this exercise from that summer figure drawing course he took one year in high school.

“You can go first,” Connor offers, setting his sketchbook off to the side. He leans back, somehow managing to look comfortable in the hard metal folding chair, long legs stretched out and shoulders relaxed. There’s something kinda regal about the way he looks off into the middle distance, eyes half-lidded, mouth soft.

The timer starts, and Kyle draws. He takes note of Connor’s features; dark curly hair, strong nose, intense eyes. His first drawing is a mostly expressionless shape, just generally conveying the angles of Connor’s face. Kyle spends the five minute drawing capturing the details that aren’t details, like Connor’s confidence, or the depth of his eyes.

The little egg timer goes off for the third time. “Wanna see?” Kyle asks, handing his sketchbook over when Connor nods.

“These are really good,” Connor says, finger tapping against the corner of the paper. “You’re talented.” His eyes lift slowly to Kyle’s face, a grin pulling at his mouth.

Kyle grins right back, slow and lazy, and winks. “I’ve got good hands.”

Connor has a nice laugh.

When it’s Connor’s turn Kyle leans back in his seat, picking a comfortable enough position and settling into it. He’s used to people drawing him but Connor’s eyes on him feel a little heavier, a little sharper, pressing into his skin like a fingerprint. He relaxes into the feeling, mind drifting to nothing, colours and shapes and light and the stuff he usually thinks about when he’s high. 

“Pencils down!” the prof calls. Kyle stretches out of his position, sticking out his legs and reaching his arms up to the ceiling, relishing the pops and cracks.

“Alright,” he says, turning towards Connor again, “let me see.”

Connor’s eyes sparkle, and he hands over his sketchbook.

Huh. His drawings are definitely good, is the thing. They’re just . . . not of Kyle. Or not entirely. Kyle thinks he sees the vague shapes of his profile, soft and deliberate, made up of abstract lines and smudges. Like he’s seeing himself, but made up of smoke and water and something even less easy to grasp.

“Okay,” Kyle says, carefully running his fingertip along the edge of the paper where there’s no pencil strokes to smudge. “I know art is supposed to be all about creatively interpreting the prompt, but this doesn’t even look like you thought about the prompt at all.”

“He said we had to draw our partners.” Connor grins at him, soft and impish. He kinda looks like the faeries when he smiles like that, clever and cruel and ready for mischief. “That’s just what I saw when I looked at you.”

Kyle shrugs. “You know the prof’s gonna hate it.”

“Well, I didn’t draw them for _him_,” Connor says with a wink, and that’s how it starts.

* * *

Connor’s a weird guy, which is maybe why he and Kyle get along so well. He’ll sit in Kyle’s dorm room and get high with him, and he doesn’t give Kyle weird looks when he starts babbling about the spirit orbs floating around the room like falling snowflakes, just smiles softly and closes his eyes like Kyle’s telling him a bedtime story.

He never really learns Connor’s major. He’s in art classes but he also takes psych and law and critical theory. Kyle’s pretty sure he catches Connor coming out of the science block in a labcoat one day, too, but then he blinked and lost track of him.

“Campus is totally haunted,” Kyle slurs one day when he’s totally smashed. Connor’s in the dorm room, stretched out on his stomach on Kyle’s bed, and Nikolaj’s sprawled on his own bed with his legs propped up against the wall. “Like, so much.”

Nikolaj hits the bed. “Ghosts are bullshit,” he says, like he didn’t almost piss himself at that haunted house in October of their first semester. “S’no proof. No _science_.”

“I think I’ll become a ghost scientist,” Connor says totally deadpan. “The first ghost scientist.”

“Fuckin’ . . .” Nikolaj waves a hand in the air. “Go for it. Prove me wrong.”

“There’s a ghost in here right now,” Kyle says, pointing to the corner of the room. The ghost there gives him a look, totally offended at having her snooping pointed out. She scowls at him, her translucent cheeks going cloudy and white, before stepping through the wall and disappearing. “Oh, nevermind, she bounced.”

“You’re so fuckin’ weird,” Nikolaj mutters, and promptly passes out.

Connor starts humming a song Kyle recognizes, but can’t quite place. The name of it is on the tip of his tongue and he starts humming along. It’s soothing, and kind of electrifying, and the hairs on the back of his neck are standing up. It feels a little bit like magic, and a little bit like something else.

* * *

“Oh, I’ve dated loads of people,” Connor says off-handedly. It’s an art class, another pair exercise, and the conversation’s somehow turned to their love lives. Maybe because Kyle’s been complaining about Nik pining and mooning over his high school ex, stalking him on Twitter and wondering what he’s doing with his life. His little red string keeps knotting his fingers like a cat’s cradle, twitching and trembling whenever he starts talking about it.

It’s fucking _annoying_.

Kyle nods, smudging out the soft lines for Connor’s hair. “Yeah, that makes sense.” Connor’s attractive and charming, if in a bit of a weird way, and he’s tall. Plus, like. Big feet. “Same, but like, less.”

Connor laughs, low and quiet. “Yeah, probably less.”

Somehow it feels like an insult. Kyle’s not offended, but he has to defend his pride. He peers at Connor over the top of his sketchbook, eyes narrowed. “What, you think I couldn’t get it as much as you?”

“I didn’t say that.” Connor laughs again. “You’re totally desirable. Eminently fuckable, even.”

“You’re goddamn right.”

* * *

So, Nikolaj ends up getting back together with his high school boyfriend. Which is great, because Kyle doesn’t need to hear him whine about it—but also the worst, because now Kyle has to hear _everything else_. He keeps coming in from class to them sprawled on Nikolaj’s bed, making out or half naked or, one memorable time when Kyle’s evening class is cancelled, literally fucking.

“Jesus fuck,” he sighs, while they both stare at him wide-eyed. “Hi, Patty.”

Patrik blinks at him, cheeks pink. “Uh. Hi.”

“So,” he says, turning his gaze on Nikolaj, who’s on his back and very rapidly turning beet red, his and Patrik’s little red string wrapped tight around his wrist. “Maybe put a sock on the door next time?” Then he goes about his business, ignoring Nikolaj gaping at him. Listen, it’s his room too. He refuses to be awkward. So he grabs the little wooden box he keeps hidden under his bed, gives Nikolaj a last withering glare, and slams the door shut behind him.

_im coming over_, he texts Connor on his way out of the building. _patty and nik are fucking and i just wanna do hw_

Connor texts back, _you asked for this_. Then he follows up with the thumbs up emoji and a picture of his dog, and Kyle grins.

He walks the twenty minutes to Connor’s apartment, even though it’s early spring and the wind is blowing through his jacket. A few faeries flock around his head, tugging gently on his hair, trying to whisper temptations into his ear. There’s a forest nearby, and Kyle knows the faeries in there are a lot meaner than the ones he used to play with in his backyard.

“Sorry,” he says, and they all titter at the acknowledgment, fluttering around like tiny sparkly butterflies. “Not interested. Maybe the next guy?”

_No fun_, the hiss in their tiny, echoing voices. _No fair_. Kyle ignores them and keeps walking.

Tinley jumps at him the second he steps in the door. Kyle toes off his boots, shrugs off his jacket, then lays down right there in the entryway with his arms spread wide. Tinley licks his face and lays on top of him like a warm, furry weighted blanket, and Kyle grins even as he’s wheezing. He buries his fingers in Tinley’s fur, breathing in the ever-present scent of _dog_. 

Connor’s watching TV in the living room when Kyle finally extricates himself from under Tinley’s weight. Kyle takes a glance at whatever Connor’s watching, then sits down on the rug and pulls out his little wooden box. It unlocks with the key hanging around his neck. He pulls out a few ingredients and arranges them, aware of Connor’s gaze boring into his back.

“What are you doing?”

“Cursing Nikolaj.” He knows Connor isn’t gonna judge him for it. Connor is a weird, weird guy; a little witchcraft isn’t going to spook him off.

True to form, Connor just makes a noise of acknowledgement. “Cool. Want a beer?”

Yeah, Kyle could go for a beer. It’s like that De Vries quote. Cast curses drunk, deal with the consequences sober.

* * *

Connor’s tattoos are the most beautiful thing Kyle’s ever seen, and that’s definitely not just because he’s high off his ass. It’s just . . . the lines are perfectly crisp even without at outline, no bleeding at all, and the colour is so vibrant it’s like Connor’s had liquid gold injected under his skin. And the designs are so intricate; thin lines and thick swoops and so many tiny patterns that make Kyle’s head buzz looking at them.

Kyle has Connor’s arm in his lap—Connor was sitting next to him, sleeves rolled up, and it just made sense to grab it. He traces his calloused thumb over one of the lines near Connor’s wrist, watching the way the design stretches with his skin. “I don’t get it,” he murmurs, dragging his fingers up and over Connor’s arm. “Why does it seem like your tattoos always change?”

When he looks at Connor, his eyes are so dark and so intense Kyle feels like he’s tipped over headfirst off a cliff into a deep, dark nothing. It’s not exactly comforting, not exactly terrifying. Mostly it just makes him shiver.

“Maybe they do?” Connor says quietly, the ghost of a smile playing on his face.

“That’d be magic,” Kyle says, swaying forward, magnetic.

Connor leans in too. “Or something.”

His fingertips press against Kyle’s jaw, and his mouth presses against Kyle's.

* * *

“I have something I should probably tell you,” Connor says.

They’re in his bed, half-naked and sleepy, playing Pokemon Go because Connor has a gym _and_ a Pokestop right next to his apartment. Kyle doesn’t know if what they’ve been doing for the past two weeks counts as dating, or fuckbuddies, or what. He doesn’t really care. He’s found he likes the feeling of Connor’s hands on him, warm and wide, and the low rumble of Connor’s laugh early in the morning over coffee.

“Okay,” Kyle says, setting down his phone. He sits up, staring at Connor laying on his back. “Go for it.”

Connor lifts his left hand, and a tiny golden string appears around his pinkie. It drapes gently over the bedsheets, up Kyle’s crossed legs, finally ending in a knot where his hands are resting in his lap.

The golden string buzzes against his skin. He plucks at it, once, and a discordant note rings through the air. _Soulmate_, Kyle's mind hums in harmony. 

He glances up at Connor, who’s just watching him. “How’d you do that?”

“Hiding something is just a trick,” Connor says, “and tricks are kind of my specialty.”

Kyle doesn’t know what that means. He does know that Connor feels . . . different. As wide and sprawling as a galaxy, pressing against his own edges. As ancient as the primal forces he’s been dancing with since he was a kid. Maybe even older; focusing on it is like looking into the sun too long, like holding his breath until passing out.

He tips forward onto his hands and knees and crawls until he’s on top, hands on either side of Connor’s head, knees on either side of his hips. “So what are you?” Connor’s hands sweep up his sides, and he grins, beautiful and terrible and everything that makes Kyle’s magic light up like a wildfire. He doesn't say anything. “Yeah, I figured,” Kyle laughs, and kisses him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen i've had the concept of witch kyle/trickster god connor in my head for so long,,
> 
> check out the nik/pate part 2! they're set in the same au :)
> 
> [tumblr](http://soft-eldritch.tumblr.com/) // [twitter](http://twitter.com/softeldritch)


	10. nikolaj/patrik, magical realism pt 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: college au + exes + “i know that it’s the thought that counts but this doesn’t even look like you thought about it.”
> 
> (again, changed the wording of the prompt again to make it fit better)
> 
> check out the connors fic in the previous chapter, it's kind of a companion fic to this!
> 
> prompted by anon on [tumblr](https://soft-eldritch.tumblr.com/post/187222654108/for-the-prompt-patrik-nikolaj-collegeau-exesi), rated G

Nikolaj wakes up to his phone blaring some sugar-sweet, oversaturated pop song, the beat already pounding in time with his headache. He glances at the time—7 AM, which is the alarm he stupidly set the night before—and groans, slamming his head against the pillow. That surprisingly doesn’t make his headache any better.

“Turn that shit off,” Kyle grumbles from the other bed, voice muffled by pillows. “Some of us have evening studio classes.”

“Fuck you,” Nikolaj says without any venom. He turns off the alarm, flopping back down on the bed and letting his eyes drift shut. He’s so fucking tempted to just lay in bed all day, catch up on all the sleep he’s missed getting five hours a night for the past two weeks, but his stupid Optics lab report isn’t gonna finish itself.

“Hey, KC?” Kyle makes some annoyed, guttural noise into the pillow, so Nikolaj knows he’s awake. “Why the fuck did I want to do a summer course?”

Kyle’s head pops up, his eyes narrowed. “What else were you gonna do, go back to Winnipeg?”

Nikolaj scowls at him. “My family actually went back to visit Denmark for like, a month, so fuck you.”

He drags himself out of bed anyway, throwing on a clean pair of jeans and a t-shirt, slipping his laptop and his headphones into his backpack. The campus Starbucks isn’t as overrun with obnoxious business majors during summer term, so it’s a pretty good place to do coursework. Plus Nikolaj can practically shotgun coffee until his mind is working, though it does put a bit of a dent in his bank account.

When he leaves the dorm he’s got his head down, rummaging through his backpack for his key. He’s _ still _ got his head down after he’s locked the door and has started down the hall.

Nikolaj’s gonna blame his lack of sleep for how, when he bumps shoulder-to-shoulder against a guy going the other way, he stumbles back and almost falls on his ass. He manages to save himself, grabbing onto the guy’s offered hand as his stomach swoops up in his throat. “Sorry, uh—” The guy’s voice cuts off, and Nikolaj’s stomach flips for an entirely different reason.

He glances up, heart pounding, and sees a crooked mouth and familiar eyes.

Fuck, okay. “Hey, Patty,” Nikolaj says awkwardly. “Uh. Sorry?”

Patrik just kinda blinks at him. Nikolaj can’t blame him. They haven’t seen each other in about three years, now, and the last time they actually spoke face to face, it was mostly just Nikolaj trying to convince both of them that long distance wouldn’t work. That it was never gonna last past the end of summer.

He remembers his reasoning—being a college student with a high school boyfriend would be weird, especially a high school boyfriend in _ Canada _. Plus, he figured you’re not supposed to go into university already tied down, you’re supposed to be able to have all those quintessential college experiences you’ll regret five years later.

Nikolaj of three years ago was, in short, a fucking dumbass.

Seeing Patrik now, though, is a _ lot _. Nikolaj’s already feeling nervous, butterflies zipping around his stomach, heat climbing up the back of his neck. Patrik is . . . well, it’s been three years, and he’s not the same gangly, awkward tenth grader with a crush that Nikolaj used to get Tims with after their AAA hockey practices. He’s just as tall but he’s filled out a little more, his shoulders a little broader, his thighs a little thicker. Nikolaj wonders if he’s still playing hockey, if he took that gap year to keep playing like he always planned, because he’s. Big. And he’s grown into his stupid face, and he has a new haircut, and he’s wearing this really nice shirt, and—

And, and. Jesus fuck, Nikolaj’s rambling even in his _ mind _.

“Hi, Nik,” Patrik says, and Nikolaj does _ not _ remember getting shivers from just his _ voice _. “You . . .” He stares at Nikolaj, drags his eyes up his body, and as Nikolaj’s hands start to sweat he realizes that Patrik’s still holding onto him. “You look good,” Patrik settles on, and his grin is confident even if his cheeks are a little pink.

“God, you too,” Nikolaj says, then immediately snaps his mouth shut.

Patrik’s grin stretches wider. “Yeah?”

Nikolaj’s cheeks flush. “I should, uh, go,” he stammers, looking anywhere but Patrik’s face. “Got a report to write, so—”

He slips his hand out of Patrik’s slack grip and practically sprints out of the building.

His head’s scattered and his hands are shaking when he sits down to write the report. It takes pretty much the entire day, because his mind keeps drifting to Patrik—his grin his eyes his fucking _ hands _, holy shit—and he can’t get his brain to focus on defining the difference between a particle and a wave.

“How’s it going?” Connor slides into the seat across from him, a fresh cardboard cup of coffee in his hand. He pushes it across the table, offering Nikolaj a wry grin along with it. “You look like you’re trying to solve the secrets of the universe.”

Nikolaj blinks at the coffee, then back at his report. “I’m trying to remember how to spell coefficient.”

Connor laughs. “I don’t know how much this is gonna help,” he says, tapping a long finger against the coffee cup, “but it probably can’t hurt?” He stands. “Anyway, good luck, bud. Knock ‘em dead.”

Nikolaj nods, and forgets about him the second he’s out of sight.

He doesn’t finish until 10 PM, and by then his head’s swimming with words and he honestly doesn’t know if anything he’s saying makes sense. But it’s done, and it’s not gonna get any better, so he submits it for marking. Then he snaps his laptop shut, climbs out of the dent he left in the Starbucks couch, and trudges back to his dorm room.

He’s out like a light the second his head hits the pillow, and he dreams of Patrik’s hands, warm and dry on his skin.

* * *

Nikolaj’s dreaming about the sound of skates on ice, the taste of shitty Tim Hortons coffee, the press of Patrik’s thigh against his own as half the team stuffed themselves into a restaurant booth. Then some shrill pop song pierces through that, drilling into his head. It takes a second to realize it’s the exact same song as yesterday. Fuck, he forgot to turn off his stupid goddamn alarm. He groans, rolling onto his stomach to try and smother himself in his pillow.

“Turn that shit off.” Kyle’s shifting in the other bed, mattress creaking. “Some of us have evening studio classes.” 

Grabbing blindly for his phone, Nikolaj burrows his face even further into the pillow. “You said that yesterday.”

“I can’t fuckin’ hear you, man.”

Fine. Nikolaj lifts his head, finally getting a hand on his phone to turn off the alarm. It cuts out, and blissful silence fills the dorm room. “You said that exact thing yesterday,” he repeats, glaring at the fluff of Kyle’s stupid hair poking out from under his covers.

Kyle sticks his head out a little, eyes narrowed. “No I didn’t, dude.”

Nikolaj rolls his eyes. “Whatever. Let’s just go back to sleep.”

“What about your paper?”

Something twinges in Nikolaj’s chest. Like . . . the feeling he gets when he’s watching a horror movie, and the camera focuses in on some insignificant detail that doesn’t seem quite right. “I finished that yesterday, dude.”

“Why the fuck did you set the alarm, then?” Kyle pushes up on his elbow, glaring blearily at him. “Weren’t you gonna finish it today, or whatever?”

Nikolaj kinda feels like he’s dreaming. “No? It was due yesterday?”

Kyle blinks at him. “You sure?”

Nikolaj grabs his phone again, about to unlock it and find the due date for the report on the syllabus. Except this time he notices that the date is wrong. Like, today’s date is yesterday’s date, except it’s today?

Jesus, no wonder ‘yesterday’ felt like such a fever dream. And no wonder Patrik—

Yeah. Definitely a dream.

“I’m gonna go work on my report,” Nikolaj says, climbing out of bed and grabbing his stuff. “See you later.”

He’s rushing a little bit, has an extra burst of energy from the realization that he’s still got all day to work on the report and whatever garbage he thought he submitted yesterday was actually just the production of a stress dream. That’s probably why he doesn’t really notice there’s someone else coming down the hallway until they crash into each other, Nikolaj’s forehead hitting the guy’s shoulder.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, shaking it off and glancing up to offer whoever it is an apologetic grin—and his heart skips, breath catching in his throat. Because the guy staring back down at him, wide-eyed and slack-mouthed, is Patrik. He looks _ exactly _ as good as he did in Nikolaj’s dream. Still built from hockey, still with the strong jaw and the crooked mouth. Still—well. Really big. “Oh,” Nikolaj says quietly, his voice cracking on the sound. “Uh. Hi, Patty.”

“Hi, Nik,” Patrik says, voice soft. Nikolaj feels it in the tips of his toes. Patrik takes a look at him, eyes deliberately falling to his feet and slowly, slowly rising all the way back up—Nikolaj feels _ that _, too, the weight of Patrik’s gaze. That’s familiar, at least. Being under Patrik’s intense attention was always liked being watched by some kind of predator. Now it’s just sharper, especially when Patrik’s mouth crooks into a grin. “You look good.”

Huh. “You already said that,” Nikolaj mumbles under his breath. He realizes too late it’s loud enough for Patrik to hear.

Patrik’s brow furrows. “What?”

Nikolaj blushes, squirming a little bit in embarrassment. “Uh, nothing. Just—deja vu, from a dream I had.”

Patrik’s eyes go wide, a smirk stretching across his face, and Nikolaj isn’t squirming out of embarrassment anymore. “You dream about me?” His giddiness is clear in his voice, in the brightness of his eyes. He steps closer, and the height difference seems so much bigger now that he’s as close as he is. “What kind of dreams?”

Holy fuck. Nikolaj shakes his head. “I—I can’t really catch up right now,” he babbles, accent slipping back into his words. “I have a report, gotta write it, so. Yeah.”

Unlike in his dream, he actually sees Patrik’s grin drop.

Nikolaj heads to Starbucks, orders two coffees, and starts working on his report. Time sorta blurs together, one long stretch of work-eat-work-drink-work, and he submits what he’s pretty sure is a fairly coherent report at 10 PM.

He bumps into Connor just as he’s coming out of the dorm room. “Oh, hey,” Connor says, giving him a smile and a little wave. “Working on your thing all day?”

“Yeah.”

Connor pats him on the shoulder, his hand big and warm. “Well, g’night. Try and get some sleep this time, huh?” Then he walks off, whistling an off-key tune Nikolaj doesn’t recognize, somehow soft and piercing at the same time.

Huh. Weird guy. Nikolaj doesn’t think any more about it, just heads into the dorm, collapses on the bed, and falls asleep.

* * *

When he wakes up to the _ same damn pop song _ the next morning, clothed in pajamas and covered by his sheets, things start feeling a little weird. Like a wriggling in the pit of his stomach, noticeable but not painful.

Nikolaj’s hand shoots out to turn off his alarm, and he checks the date while he’s at it. Same as yesterday.

“Thank you,” Kyle mutters. “Some of us have evening studio classes.”

Nikolaj’s head hurts. He thinks he might be starting to hyperventilate. “Yeah, whatever,” he says, already stumbling out of bed, panic surging through him like a heartbeat. This has to be some stress nightmare, or like, a drawn out hallucination. This sort of thing doesn’t happen in real life.

He stuffs his shit into his bag and practically falls out the door. The air feels thick whenever he breathes in, coagulating in his lungs like cigarette smoke, making it hard to fill up his chest. Nikolaj’s not certain, but he’s pretty sure this is what having a panic attack feels like.

“It’s fine,” he mutters to himself. “You’re fine.” His voice trembles, his legs loose and weak as he walks towards the stairwell.

“Woah.” Patrik’s voice stops him dead in his tracks. Nikolaj squeezes his eyes shut, curls his hands into tight fists. He can’t deal with this right now—he _ can’t _. He opens his eyes to see Patrik approaching him, eyes big and soft and concerned, maybe a little confused. “Nik?” His hands come up—big hands, Nikolaj’s brain supplies unhelpfully—and hover near Nikolaj’s shoulders. Like he’s not sure he’s allowed to touch.

Nikolaj almost sways into him. It’s a magnetic pull he only barely resists, jaw clenched, nails digging into his palms. “Hey.”

Patrik purses his mouth. “Are you okay? You don’t look very good.”

They aren’t even the same words, but . . . the familiarity makes Nikolaj’s eye twitch.

“Shut the fuck up,” Nikolaj snaps, and he stalks off before he can process the hurt look on Patrik’s face.

* * *

Next time Nikolaj wakes up to the stupid fucking song, he just shuts off his alarm and goes the fuck back to sleep. Kyle’s gone by the time he wakes up again halfway through the afternoon, apparently hanging out with Connor if his selfie of the two of them making stupid faces with Tinley is anything to go by.

He stays in bed all day, just to see what will happen. Watching Netflix on his phone, some mind-numbing show that distracts him from the fact that he hasn’t actually eaten all day.

Kyle comes back late into the evening, and stares. “Did you finish your report?”

“Nope.”

Kyle’s brows shoot up. “Did you even start working on it?”

Nikolaj looks back down at his phone. “Nope.”

“Dude.” Kyle collapses sideways on his own bed, staring at Nikolaj with an inscrutable expression on his face. “Like . . . dude.”

Nikolaj shrugs.

* * *

Nikolaj tries everything. Writing the report, not writing it, deliberately bombing it, perfecting it up until 11:59 PM. Writing in Starbucks, in his dorm, in the library, even outside with sunlight glaring off his laptop screen. Coffee and no coffee, eating and no eating.

Nikolaj tries everything, and every damn time he wakes up on that same morning, glitzy pop blasting in his ear and Kyle grumbling in the bed across the room.

And it sucks, because everytime he leaves his dorm room, he sees Patrik again. Sees Patrik seeing him for the first time in three years, the way his eyes go wide and his cheeks go pink and he gets that ridiculous crooked smile on his face. If he doesn’t bump into Patrik in the dorms, he’ll be at Starbucks, or walking outside with another freshman, or washing his hands in the bathroom when Nikolaj needs to take a piss.

Nikolaj’s starting to realize; no matter what he does, Patrik is unavoidable.

He’s kind of afraid to acknowledge what that means.

* * *

They’re in the dorm room—Nikolaj, Kyle and Connor, who apparently decided to come over and chill on their floor today—when Nikolaj snaps his laptop lid shut and asks, “how do you get out of feeling stuck?”

Both of them glance over at him. “Do you mean with your report or just life in general?” Kyle asks. “Because I can’t help you with your report. The extent of my scientific expertise is, like, Bill Nye.”

Nikolaj shrugs. “Just in general, I guess.”

“Try something new,” Connor offers, an impish grin on his face. “Something you haven’t done yet.”

Yeah, see, that’s what Nikolaj was afraid of.

* * *

Connor’s advice is easier said than done. Nikolaj wakes up the next day ready to be done with this stupid time loop bullshit, then falters when he’s getting dressed and realizes _ Patrik’s _ gonna see him. Grown-up, filled-out, really hot Patrik is gonna see him. Nikolaj can’t even get by on being the hot older one anymore, because now he just looks like every college student; bags under his eyes, two months late for a haircut.

“KC,” he says, a little bit desperate, “do these jeans make my ass look good?”

“I’m gonna fucking curse you,” Kyle mutters, whatever that means, before dragging his head off the pillow and giving Nikolaj a once-over. “Your ass is fine. Can I go back to sleep now?” He doesn’t wait for an answer before covering himself with his comforter.

Fuck. Okay. He can do this. He dated Patrik once, he can do it again.

(He doesn’t think about how, of the two of them, Patrik was the one with the courage to ask him out first, on Nikolaj’s birthday. And the one who, when Nikolaj told him he wouldn’t date a fifteen year old, waited two months and texted him the morning of his sixteenth birthday _ wanna go out? _ and a winky face.

God, Patrik was a fucking ridiculous kid.)

Nikolaj doesn’t give himself more time to think and talk himself out of it. He steps out of the room, eyes immediately snapping in the direction he knows Patrik is coming from. Sure enough, Patrik’s walking down the hall, reading over a sheet of paper like he has every other day.

“Hey!” Patrik’s head lifts at the sound of Nikolaj’s voice, and Nikolaj’s heart skips. No chickening out now. 

“Nik,” Patrik says, frozen in his tracks, eyes big and blue.

Nikolaj takes a deep breath and walks up to him, until there isn’t even an arm’s length between them. “Hey,” he says again, a little softer, a little awkwardly. “Sorry for dumping you.” Patrik’s eyes get impossibly wider. “I was an idiot, it really wasn’t worth it, we should get back together and make out, maybe?” 

He’s breathing a little hard by the time he’s done. Patrik’s just staring at him.

“Uh, wow,” Patrik says, stumbling over his words a little. His cheeks go pink. “Was . . . that an apology? Or a confession?” A smile tugs at his mouth, goofy and crooked. “I know the thought is supposed to count, but it, um, doesn’t sound like you thought about any of what you just said.”

Fair point. Nikolaj just considers himself lucky he managed to speak English through that whole thing. “I didn’t,” he says, willfully ignoring his own blush. “So what do you say?”

Patrik grins, or maybe smirks, and Nikolaj’s heartbeat flutters. “I dunno.” He steps closer, forcing Nikolaj to tilt his chin up a little just to look him head on. “How about you buy me dinner tonight to make it up to me?”

“Yes,” Nikolaj blurts, relief flooding through him. Then he remembers the report he’s written about twenty times already. Fuck. “Wait, actually, I can’t tonight. I have a report I have to finish by midnight.” He swallows. “Uh. Sorry.”

Luckily, Patrik doesn’t seem bothered by how scattered his brain is right now. “I’m free tomorrow,” he offers, smirk softening.

“I can do tomorrow.” Nikolaj tugs his phone out of his pocket. “Give me your number, I’ll text you.” They exchange numbers, and the nervous, shaky feeling in Nikolaj’s stomach has mostly dissipated into anticipation. He grins up at Patrik, feeling like a teenager all over again. “Okay,” he says slowly, reluctantly. “I should go work on my report.” 

He moves to walk past him, and Patrik’s hand curls around his arm. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“Huh?”

Patrik smirks, and leans down to kiss him, soft and sweet, right in the middle of the hallway. 

(The next morning, Nikolaj wakes up to silence, and a text from Patrik that’s nothing but a little blue heart.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading!!
> 
> [tumblr](http://soft-eldritch.tumblr.com/) // [twitter](http://twitter.com/softeldritch)


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